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"JUST  THEN  THK  GHOST  DKKW  I'l-  HIS  CHAIR 

'AND  SAID,  'MY  NAME  is  STANDlSH.'"—Page  809. 


Poems 


James   Russell   Lowell 


I'IC.XETTE    EDITION.       //•'//'//    OXH    HUNDRED 
ILLCSTKA  TIO.VS 


Edmund  M.  Ashe 


NEW    YORK 

FREDERICK    A.    STOKES   COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


,  1S!»4.  hi/ 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

A  Legend  of  Brittany            i 

Aliegru 34 

The  Fountain          ......                  ......  35 

The  Shepherd  of  King  Admetiis 36 

The  Token 37 

Song 39 

Love ' 40 

To  Perdita,  Singing            ...........  41 

The  Forlorn  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         -44 

Song  47 

Midnight 47 

Appledore    ..............  49 

To  the  Dandelion .  51 

Dara             52 

ToJ.F.  H.     .         .  .54 

Rosaline       ..............  56 

Sonnet 60 

A  Glance  liehmd  the  Curtain             .........  60 

Song 69 

The  Moon             .............  70 

The  Fatherland 71 

A  Parable            72 

On  the  Death  of  a  Friend's  Child 74 

An  Incident  in  a  Railroad  Car 77 

An  Incident  of  the  Fire  at  Hamburg            80 

Sonnets         ........                  .....  83 

Hakon's  Lay 86 

To  the  Future ....  83 

Out  of  Doors           .............  91 

A  Reverie             y2 


Farewell       ..............  96 

A   Dirge  .....  .......     100 

Fancies  About  a  Rosebud         ..........  105 

New  Year's  Eve,  1844  ...........       108 

A  Mystical  Kallad  112 

Opening  Poem  to  a  Year's  Life  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .115 

Dedication,  to  Volume  of  Poems  entitled— A  Year's  Life     ....          116 

Threnodia  .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .117 

The  Serenade  ............  119 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

Song I22 

TheDeparud '24 

The  Bobolink      ....  ^7 

Forjfetf  ulness '3° 

Song  '31 

The  Poet          .  13* 

Flowers '33 

The  Lover i38 

To  E.  \V.  C, M" 

Isabel      ....  M2 

Music M4 

Song 148 

lanthc 15° 

Love's  Altar 155 

My  Love 156 

With  a  Pressed  Flower  T58 

Impartiality 160 

Kellerophon 160 

Something  Natural 164 

The  Sirens 165 

A  Feeling  ....  169 

The  Beggar  .............  169 

Serenade      ..............  170 

Irene 172 

The  Lost  Child 174 

The  Church    ..............  175 

The  Unlovely     .............  177 

Love  Song 180 

Song 1 80 

A  Love  Dream 182 

Fourth  of  July  Od,-  184 

Sphinx     ......  ........  184 

A  Prayer .186 

Fantasy  ..............  187 

The  Heritage .         .  188 

The  Rose:   A  Ballad       ....  191 

Elegy  on  the  Death  of  Dr.  Channing  194 

Stanzas    .........  .....  196 

Silence          ......  .....  i  ;7 

A  Chippewa  Legend       ...  ....  .198 

The  Vision  of  Sir  Launfal  206 

Sonnets  .......  .  218 

Sonnets  on  Names      ............  241 

I.'F.nvoi  ....  .  243 

Summer  Storm  ...  ......  248 

Remembered  Music        ....  .  ....  252 

Song    ...  .         .  252 

Ode ...  253 

A  Requiem  ...  .....  257 

Rhu-cus  .  2=;8 


Contents. 


Columbus    . 

Hunger  and  Cold 

The  Landlord 

To  a  Pine-Tree 

Si  Descendero  in  Infei 

To  the  Past 

Hebe 

The  Search 

The  Present  Crisis 

An  Indian-Summer  Reverie 
The  Growth  of  the  Legend 

A  Contrast 

Kxtreme  Unction 

The  Oak          

Above  and   lie-low 

The  Captive 

The  Kirch-Tree 

An  Interview  with  Miles  Standish 

On  the  Capture  of  Fugitive  Slaves  near  W; 

'1  he  C,hcst-Seer 

Studies  for  Tv.-o  Heads      .... 

On  a  Portrait  of  Dante 

The  Changeling 

The  Pioneer 

Longing 

On  the  Death  of  Charles  T.  Torrey 

The  falconer 

Anti-Texas  

'['he  Royal  Pedigree 

The  Kpitaph 


PART   FIRST. 

i. 

FAIR  as  a  summer  dream  was  Margaret, — 
Such  dream  as  in  a  poet's  soul  might  start, 

Musing  of  old  loves  while  the  moon  doth  set : 
Her  hair  was  not  more  sunny  than  her  heart, 

Though  like  a  natural  golden  coronet 
It  circled  her  dear  head  with  careless  art, 

Mocking  the  sunshine,  that  would  fain  have  lent 

To  its  frank  grace  a  richer  ornament. 

n. 
His  loved-one's  eyes  could  poet  ever  speak, 

So  kind,  so  dewy,  and  so  deep  were  hers, — - 
But,  while  he  strives,  the  choicest  phrase,  too  weak, 

Their  glad  reflection  in  his  spirit  blurs ; 
As  one  may  see  a  dream  dissolve  and  break 

Out  of  his  grasp  when  he  to  tell  it  stirs, 
Like  that  sad  Dryad  doomed  no  more  to  bless 
The  mortal  who  revealed  her  loveliness. 

III. 

She  dwelt  forever  in  a  region  bright, 
Peopled  with  living  fancies  of  her  own, 

Where  naught  could  come  but  visions  of  delight, 
Far,  far  aloof  from  earth's  eternal  moan  : 

A  summer  cloud  thrilled  through  with  rosy  light, 
Floating  beneath  the  blue  sky  all  alone, 

Her  spirit  wandered  by  itself,  and  won 

A  golden  edge  from  some  unsetting  sun. 

IV. 

The  heart  grows  richer  that  its  lot  is  poor, — 
God  blesses  want  with  larger  sympathies, — 


a  legenD  of  JBrittang. 

Love  enters  gladliest  at  the  humble  door, 

And  makes  the  cot  a  palace  with  his  eyes  ;— 

So  Margaret's  heart  a  softer  beauty  wore, 
And  grew  in  gentleness  and  patience  wise. 

For  she  was  but  a  simple  herdsman's  child, 

A  lily  chance-sown  in  the  rugged  wild. 

v. 
There  was  no  beauty  of  the  wood  or  field 

But  she  its  fragrant  bosom-secret  knew, 
Nor  any  but  to  her  would  freely  yield 

Some  grace  that  in  her  soul  took  root  and  grew 
Nature  to  her  glowed  ever  new-revealed, 

All  rosy-fresh  with  innocent  morning  dew. 
And  looked  into  her  heart  with  dim,  sweet  eyes 
That  left  it  full  of  sylvan  memories. 

VI. 

O,  what  a  face  was  hers  to  brighten  light, 
And  give  back  sunshine  with  an  added  glow, 

To  wile  each  moment  with  a  fresh  delight, 

And  part  of  memory's  best  contentment  grow ! 

O,  how  her  voice,  as  with  an  inmate's  right, 
Into  the  strangest  heart  would  welcome  go, 

And  make  it  sweet,  and  ready  to  become 

Of  white  and  gracious  thoughts  the  chosen  home ! 

VII. 

None  looked  upon  her  but  he  straightway  thought 
Of  all  the  greenest  depths  of  country  cheer, 

And  into  each  one's  heart  was  freshly  brought 
What  was  to  him  the  sweetest  time  of  year, 

So  was  her  every  look  and  motion  fraught 
With  out-of-door  delights  and  forest  lere  ; 

Not  the  first  violet  on  a  woodland  lea 

Seemed  a  more  visible  gift  of  spring  than  she. 

VIII. 

Is  love  learned  only  out  of  poets'  books? 

Is  there  not  somewhat  in  the  dropping  flood, 
And  in  the  nunneries  of  silent  nooks, 

And  in  the  murmured  longing  of  the  wood, 
That  could  make  Margaret  dream  of  lovelorn  looks. 

And  stir  a  thrilling  mystery  in  her  blood 
More  trembly  secret  than  Aurora's  tear 
Shed  in  the  bosom  of  an  eglatere? 


a  OLegenO  of  JBrittang. 

IX. 

Full  many  a  sweet  forewarning  hath  the  mind, 
Full  many  a  whispering  of  vague  desire, 

Ere  comes  the  nature  destined  to  unbind 
Its  virgin  zone,  and  all  its  deeps  inspire, — 

Low  stirrings  in  the  leaves,  before  the  wind 
Wakes  all  the  green  strings  of  the  forest  lyre, 

Faint  heatings  in  the  calyx,  ere  the  rose 

Its  warm,  voluptuous  breast  doth  all  unclose. 

x. 

Long  in  its  dim  recesses  pines  the  spirit, 
Wildered  and  dark,  despairingly  alone ; 

Though  many  a  shape  of  beauty  wander  near  it, 
And  many  a  wild  and  half-remembered  tone 


"NOT  THE  FIRST  VIOLET  ON   A   WOODLAND  LKA. 


Tremble  from  the  divine  abyss  to  cheer  it, 
Vet  still  it  knows  that  there  is  only  one 
Before  whom  it  can  kneel  and  tribute  bring, 
Yet  be  far  less  a  vassal  than  a  king. 

XI. 

To  feel  a  want,  yet  scarce  know  what  it  is, 
To  seek  one  nature  that  is  always  new, 

Whose  glance  is  warmer  than  another's  kiss, 
Whom  we  can  bare  our  inmost  beauty  to 

Nor  feel  deserted  afterwards, — for  this 
But  with  our  destined  comate  we  can  do,- 


IccienO  of 


Such  longing  instinct  fills  the  mighty  scope 
Of  the  young  soul  with  one  mysterious  hope, 

XII. 

Naught  as  a  maiden's  soul  is  bountiful, 

For  beauty's  law  is  bounty :  it  must  be 
That,  when  the  heart  with  blessedness  is  full, 

It  droops  into  a  sated  apathy, 
Unless  the  choice  blooms  of  that  bliss  it  cull 
To  crown  another  with,  and  make  it  free 
Of  beauty's  harvest,  which  unfruitful  lies, 
Wanting  the  ripening  light  of  loving  eyes. 

XIII. 

So  Margaret's  heart  grew  brimming  with  the  lore 
Of  love's  enticing  secrets ;  and  although 

She  had  found  none  to  cast  it  down  before, 
Yet  oft  to  Fancy's  chapel  she  would  go 

To  pay  her  vows,  and  count  the  rosary  o'er 
Of  her  love's  promised  graces: — haply  so 

Miranda's  hope  had  pictured  Ferdinand 

Long  ere  the  gaunt  wave  tossed  him  on  the  strand, 

XIV. 

A  new-made  star  that  swims  the  lonely  gloom, 
Unwedded  yet  and  longing  for  the  sun, 

Whose  beams,  the  bride-gifts  of  the  lavish  groom, 
Blithely  to  crown  the  virgin  planet  run, 

Her  being  was,  watching  to  see  the  bloom 
Of  love's  fresh  sunrise  roofing  one  by  one 

Its  clouds  with  gold,  a  triumph-arch  to  be 

For  him  who  came  to  hold  her  heart  in  fee. 

xv. 

Her  sun  arose  to  redden  in  eclipse, 

Alas!  too  soon,  ere  yet  't  was  risen  wholly, — 
But  let  us  not  unseal  the  morrow's  lips ; 

Swiftly  enough  thou  comest,  Melancholy, 
And  what  we  win  of  earth's  contentment  slips 

From  our  forlorn  embraces  not  too  slowly : 
Let  the  bright  mist  of  morning  cover  now 
From  our  pleased  eyes  the  future's  sullen  brow. 

XVI. 

Not  far  from  Margaret's  cottage  dwelt  a  knight 

Of  the  proud  Templars,  a  sworn  celibate, 
Whose  heart  in  secret  fed  upon  the  light 


a  Xegenfc  of  JBrittang. 

And  dew  of  her  ripe  beauty,  through  the  gate 
Of  his  close  vow  catching  what  gleams  he  might 

Of  the  free  heaven,  and  cursing- — all  too  late — 
The  cruel  faith  whose  black  walls  hemmed  him  in 
And  turned  life's  crowning  bliss  to  deadly  sin. 

XVII. 

For  he  had  met  her  in  the  wood  by  chance, 

And,  having  drunk  her  beauty's  wildenng  spell, 

His  heart  shook  like  the  pennon  of  a  lance 
That  quivers  in  a  breeze's  sudden  swell, 

And  thenceforth,  in  a  close  enfolded  trance, 
From  mistily  golden  deep  to  deep  he  fell ; 

The  earth  did  waver  and  fade  far  away 

Beneath  the,  hope  in  whose  warm  arms  he  lay. 

XVIII. 

A  dark,  proud  man  he  was,  whose  half-blown  youth 

Had  shed  its  blossoms  even  in  opening, 
Leaving  a  few  that  with  more  winning  ruth 

Trembling  around  grave  manhood's  stem  might  cling, 
More  sad  than  cheery,  making,  in  good  sooth, 

Like  the  fringed  gentian,  a  late  autumn  spring  :— 
A  twilight  nature,  braided  light  and  gloom, 
A  youth  half  smiling  by  an  open  tomb. 

XIX. 

Fair  as  an  angel,  who  yet  inly  wore 

A  wrinkled  heart  foreboding  his  near  fall; 

Who  saw  him  alway  wished  to  know  him  more, 
As  if  he  were  some  fate's  defiant  thrall 

And  nursed  a  dreaded  secret  at  his  core ; 
Little  he  loved,  but  power  most  of  all, 

And  that  he  seemed  to  scorn,  as  one  who  knew 

By  what  foul  paths  men  choose  to  crawl  thereto. 

xx. 

Yet  by  long  sufference  this  love  had  grown 
Into  a  passion  with  him,  that  would  make 

As  great  a  triumph  for  a  child  o'erthrown 
As  for  a  giant,  and,  self-blinded,  take 

Ambition's  meanest  footstool  for  a  throne : 
So  day  by  day  he  nursed  a  bitterer  ache 

At  heart,  and  learned  to  see  no  wider  realm 

Than  could  be  spanned  by  a  grand-master's  helm. 


'FOR  HE  HAD  MKT  HER  IN  THE  WOOD  BY  CHANCE. 


B  XegenD  of  JBrittang. 

XXI. 

He  could  seem  noble  a  rich  end  to  gain, 
And  he  would  talk  of  nobleness,  as  't  were 

A  gift  as  cheap  and  common  as  the  rain ; 

Praise  was  a  thing  it  seemed  he  could  not  bear, 

Wrapping  himself  therefrom  in  high  disdain, 

Yet  his  most  careless  deeds  were  done  with  care, 

And,  if  they  were  unheeded  or  unseen, 

A  passing  shade  of  gall  would  cloud  his  mien. 

XXII. 

He  had  been  noble,  but  some  great  deceit 
Had  turned  his  better  instinct  to  a  vice: 

He  strove  to  think  the  world  was  all  a  cheat, 
That  power  and  fame  were  cheap  at  any  price, 

That  the  sure  way  of  being  shortly  great 

Was  even  to  play  life's  game  with  loaded  dice 

Since  he  had  tried  the  honest  play  and  found 

That  vice  and  virtue  differed  but  in  sound. 


But  none  can  wholly  put  his  heart  away, 
And,  though  he  aimed  to  act  upon  a  plan 

Of  steady  fraud  to  keep  his  soul  at  bay, 

Yet  sometimes  through  his  breast  an  instinct  ran, 

That  roused  the  memory  of  a  purer  day 
Ere  life  to  be  a  bitter  toil  began : 

A  self-made  minotaur,  half  man  half  beast, 

He  bound  himself  and  longed  to  be  released. 

XXIV. 

Spurn  at  the  world  and  it  will  deem  you  great, 
Scorn  it  if  you  would  win  its  high  esteem, 

Make  your  own  chance,  life  is  too  short  to  wait 
Until  the  side  of  error  kicks  the  beam, 

Set  down  your  value  at  your  own  huge  rate, 

The  world  will  pay  it ; — such  was  his  weak  scheme 

To  make  the  most  of  life,  and  it  serves  well 

Those  who  would  go  no  deeper  than  the  shell. 

XXV. 

Yet  Margaret's  sight  redeemed  him  for  a  space 
From  his  own  thraldom  ;  man  could  never  be 

A  hypocrite  when  first  such  maiden  grace 
Smiled  in  upon  his  heart ;  the  agony 

Of  wearing  all  day  long  a  lying  face 


Helens  of  J6rittanv>. 


Fell  lightly  from  him,  and,  a  moment  free, 
Erect  with  wakened  faith  in  spirit  stood 
And  scorned  the  weakness  of  its  demon-mood. 

XXVI. 

Like  a  sweet  wind-harp  to  him  was  her  thought, 
Which  would  not  let  the  common  air  come  near, 

Till  from  its  dim  enchantment 

it  had  caught 
A  musical  tenderness  that 

brimmed  his  ear 
With  sweetness  more  ethereal 

than  aught 
Save  silver-dropping  snatche 

that  whilere 
Rained  down  from  some  sad 

angel's  faithful  harp 
To  cool  her  fallen  lover's 
anguish  sharp. 

XXVII. 

Deep  in  the  forest  was  a  little 

dell 
High  overarched  with  the 

leafy  sweep 
Of  a  broad  oak,  through  whose 

gnarled  roots  there  fell 
A  slender  rill  that  sung  itsell 

asleep, 
Where  its  continuous  toil  had 

scooped  a  well 
To  please  the  fairy  folk  ; 

breathlessly  deep 
The  stillness  was,  save  when 

the  dreaming  brook 
From  its  small  urn  a  drizzly 

murmur  shook. 


UEKP  IX  THK  FOREST  WAS  A  LITTLE  DELL." 


The  wooded  hills  sloped 

upward  all  around 
With  gradual  rise,  and  made  an  even  rim, 
So  that  it  seemed  a  mighty  casque  unbound 

From  some  huge  Titan's  brow  to  lighten  him, 
Ages  ago,  and  left  upon  the  ground, 

Where  the  slow  soil  had  mossed  it  to  the  brim. 


B  XegenD  of  Brittany. 

Till  after  countless  centuries  it  grew 
Into  this  dell,  the  haunt  of  noontide  dew. 

XXIX. 

Dim  vistas,  sprinkled  o'er  with  sun-flecked  green, 
Wound  through  the  thickset  trunks  on  every  side, 

And,  toward  the  west,  in  fancy  may  be  seen 
A  gothic  window  in  its  blazing  pride, 

When  the  low  sun,  two  arching  elms  between, 
Lit  up  the  leaves  beyond,  which,  autumn-dyed 

With  lavish  hues,  would  into  splendor  start, 

Shaming  the  labored  panes  of  richest  art. 

XXX. 

Here,  leaning  once  against  the  old  oak's  trunk. 

Mordred,  for  such  was  the  young  Templar's  name, 
Saw  Margaret  come  ;  unseen,  the  falcon  shrunk 

From  the  meek  dove;  sharp  thrills  of  tingling  flame 
Made  him  forget  that  he  was  vowed  a  monk, 

And  all  the  outworks  of  his  pride  o'ercame  : 
Flooded  he  seemed  with  bright  delicious  pain, 
As  if  a  star  had  burst  within  his  brain. 

XXXI. 

Such  power  hath  beauty  and  frank  innocence : 
A  flower  burst  forth,  that  sunshine  glad  to  bless, 

Even  from  his  love's  long  leafless  stem ;  the  sense 
Of  exile  from  Hope's  happy  realm  grew  less, 

And  thoughts  of  childish  peace,  he  knew  not  whence, 
Thronged  round  his  heart  with  many  an  old  caress, 

Melting  the  frost  there  into  pearly  dew 

That  mirrored  back  his  nature's  morning-blue. 

XXXII. 

She  turned  and  saw  him,  but  she  felt  no  dread, 

Her  purity,  like  adamantine  mail, 
Did  so  encircle  her ;  and  yet  her  head 

She  drooped,  and  made  her  golden  hair  her  veil, 
Through  which  a  glow  of  rosiest  lustre  spread, 

Then  faded,  and  anon  she  stood  all  pale, 
As  snow  o'er  which  a  blush  of  northern-light 
Suddenly  reddens,  and  as  soon  grows  white. 

XXXIII. 

She  thought  of  Tristrem  and  of  Lancilot, 

Of  all  her  dreams,  and  of  kind  fairies'  might, 
And  ho\v  that  dell  was  deemed  a  haunted  spot, 


'HOW  THEY  WKST  HOME  TOGETHER    THROUGH    THE  WOOD. 


Until  there  grew  a  mist  before  her  sight, 
And  where  the  present  was  she  half  forgot, 

Borne  backward  through  the  realms  of  old  delight, — 
Then,  starting  up  awake,  she  would  have  gone, 
Vet  almost  wished  it  might  not  be  alone. 

xxxiv. 

How  they  went  home  together  through  the  wood, 
And  how  all  life  seemed  focused  into  one 

Thought-dazzling  spot  that  set  ablaze  the  blood, 
What  need  to  tell  ?     Fit  language  there  is  none 

For  the  heart's  deepest  things.     Who  ever  wooed 
As  in  his  boyish  hope  he  would  have  done  ? 

For,  when  the  soul  is  fullest,  the  hushed  tongue 

Voicelessly  trembles  like  a  lute  unstrung. 

xxxv. 

But  all  things  carry  the  heart's  messages 

And  know  it  not,  nor  doth  the  heart  well  know, 

But  nature  hath  her  will ;  even  as  the  bees, 
Blithe  go-betweens,  fly  singing  to  and  fro 

With  the  fruit-quickening  pollen; — hard  if  these 
Found  not  some  all  unthought-of  way  to  show 

Their  secret  each  to  each ;  and  so  they  did, 

And  one  heart's  flower-dust  into  the  other  slid. 

XXXVI. 

Young  hearts  are  free ;  the  selfish  world  it  is 
That  turns  them  miserly  and  cold  as  stone, 

And  makes  them  clutch  their  fingers  on  the  bliss, 
Which  but  in  giving  truly  is  their  own; — 

She  had  no  dreams  of  barter,  asked  not  his, 
But  gave  hers  freely  as  she  would  have  thrown 

A  rose  to  him,  or  as  that  rose  gives  forth 

Its  generous  fragrance,  thoughtless  of  its  worth. 

xxxvn. 

We  only  prize  those  hearts  that  do  not  pri/.e 

Themselves :  love  by  its  nature  shrinks 
From  any  thought  of  grovelling  merchandise, 

And,  like  a  humming  bird  a-wing,  it  drinks 
From  flowerlike  souls  the  honeydew  that  lies 

Wide  open  to  the  air,  and  never  thinks 
Of  its  own  worth  or  theirs,  or  aught  beside 
But  joy  and  sunlight  and  life's  morning  tide. 


B  ILcgcnO  of  . 

XXXVIII. 

Her  summer  nature  felt  a  need  to  bless, 
And  a  like  longing  to  be  blest  again; 

So,  from  her  sky-like  spirit,  gentleness 
Dropt  ever  like  a  sunlit  fall  of  rain, 

And  his  beneath  drank  in  the  bright  caress 
As  thirstily  as  would  a  parched  plain, 

That  long  hath  watched  the  showers  of  sloping  gray 

For  ever,  ever,  falling  far  away. 

xxxix. 

Now  Margaret  hath  gained  her  secret  bower, 
Where  musing  she  gazed  up  into  the  blue 

Calm  heaven,  which  looked  as  it  could  never  lower, 
Now  that  her(  happy  dreams  had  come  so  true : 

Life  seemed  the  birth  of  that  last  crowded  hour, 
And,  all  impearled  with  sunshine  and  fresh  dew, 

It  lay  before  her  like  a  summer  walk, 

An  hour  of  trembling  looks  and  ravished  talk. 


O,  might  life  fade  away  and  gently  cease 
While  the  heart  vibrates  like  a  golden  string, 

Ending  in  music  and  forgetful  peace, 

While  untried  hope  is  full  of  sinewy  spring 

As  a  new  bow,  ere  yet  by  slow  degrees 

Earth's  dust  hath  clotted  round  the  soul's  fresh  wing 

And  made  us  flutter,  sink,  and  crawl,  and  die, 

Heart-broken  by  our  instinct  for  the  sky ! 

XLI. 
But  Earth  is  Earth,  and  beautiful  is  she 

Our  mother,  from  whose  fertile  breast  we  draw 
Half  of  our  nature :  it  is  destiny 

That  we  flee  to  her  from  the  gloomy  maw 
Of  the  unknown ;  for  we  can  never  see 

More  than  a  fragment  of  the  spirit's  law, 
And  clasp  her  hand  most  closely  when  we  might 
Be  weaned  at  once,  and  feed  on  nectarous  light. 

XLI  I. 
Sorrow,  there  seemeth  more  of  thee  in  life 

Than  we  can  bear  and  live,  and  yet  we  bear ; 
And  thy  endurance  is  the  desperate  knife 

Wherewith  the  cable  of  our  dreams  we  share, 
To  steer  out  boldly  through  the  monstrous  strife 


of  JBrtttang. 

Of  surging  action  and  learn  how  to  dare, 
And  drive  right  onward  through  the  grasping  seas 
To  Will  and  Power,  which  give  the  soul  true  ease. 

XLIII. 
Yet  let  us  dream  while  we  are  anchored  yet, 

If  so  some  portion  of  the  destined  ache 
That  haunts  the  spirit  here  we  may  forget : 

Who  never  dreamed  is  never  well  awake ; 
The  stars  of  life  one  after  other  set, 

And,  while  we  can  with  faith,  'tis  good  to  make 
The  world  seem  what  it  was  when  first  we  turned 
Saw  its  broad  stretch,  and  for  its  triumphs  burned. 

XLIV. 

Could  Margaret  have  seen  the  shaft  of  woe 

Which  fate  even  now  was  drawing  to  the  head, 

Even  in  the  very  twanging  of  the  bow, 

Whose  aim  must  strike  her  soaring  gladness  dead. 

She  would  have  shut  her  eyes  upon  the  blow, 
And  all  her  soul  upon  her  lover  shed, 

Though  life  went  with  it, — so  the  heart  is  fain 

To  gamble  present  bliss  for  future  pain. 

xi.v. 
No  matter,  woe  is  short  and  life  is  long : 

We  prate  too  much  of  this  world's  flitting  grief, 
Thoughtless  of  the  unimaginable  throng 

Of  after  lives  that  bring  the  soul  relief 
And  countless  chances  more  :  like  oak-trees  strong, 

We  shed  our  frail  lives  from  us,  leaf  by  leaf, 
And  each  new  death  but  brings  the  spirit  more 
Broad  worlds  to  win  and  beauty  to  adore. 

XLVI. 
So,  Margaret,  let  thy  heart  leap  up  to  hear 

Each  night,  the  rustle  of  the  leaves  which  tells 
That  the  long  dreamed-of  ecstasy  is  near, 

That  made  the  day  seem  empty:  O,  what  swells 
Of  brightly  mingled,  sudden  hope  and  fear 

Hast  thou,  awaiting  him  since  curfew  bells 
Have  died  away,  and  Hesper  in  the  west 
Trembled  as  doth  the  joy  within  thy  breast ! 

XI.VII. 

How  should  she  dream  of  ill?  the  heart  filled  quite 
With  sunshine,  like  the  shepherd's-clock  at  noon, 


B  Xcflcnft  of  JBrtttang. 


AWAITING   HIM  81NCK  ITUHKW 
BKLI..S  HAVK  DIED   AWAY." 


jr  Closes  its  leaves  aroum 

its  warm  delight ; 
Whate'er  in  life  is  harsh 

or  out  of  tune 
Is  all  shut  out,  no  boding 

shade  of  blight 
Can  pierce  the  opiate  ether  of 

its  swoon : 
Love  is  but  blind  as  thoughtful 

justice  is, 

But  naught  can  be  so  wanton-blind 
as  bliss. 

XLVIII. 
When  Mordred  came,  all  soul 

she  seemed  to  be, 
And  quite  broke  through  the  clay's  entangling  mesh, 
His  spirit  with  her  eyes  she  seemed  to  see. 

And  feel  its  motion  in  her  very  flesh ; 
And,  when  he  went,  his  radiant  memory 

Robed  all  her  fantasies  with  glory  fresh, 
As  if  an  angel,  quitting  her  awhile, 
Left  round  her  heart  the  halo  of  his  smile. 

XLIX. 
Bright  passion  of  young  hearts,  like  the  huge  burst 

Of  some  grand  symphony  all  unaware 
Storming  the  soul,  majestic  as  the  first 

Sight  of  the  rousing  ocean — poor  and  bare, 
And  barren  of  all  life  as  spots  accurst, 

Thou  mak'st  all  other  joys,  once  deemed  most  rare ! 
So  Margaret  thought  when  Mordred  went  away 
And  made  day  night,  or  came  and  made  night  day. 

L. 

All  beauty  and  all  life  he  was  to  her ; 

She  questioned  not  his  love,  she  only  knew 


a  ILegenfc  of  JSrittang. 

That  she  loved  him,  and  not  a  pulse  could  stir 

In  her  whole  frame  but  quivered  through  and  through 

With  this  glad  thought,  and  was  a  minister 
To  do  him  fealty  and  service  true, 

Like  golden  ripples  hasting  to  the  land 

To  wreck  their  freight  of  sunshine  on  the  strand. 

LI. 
O  dewy  dawn  of  love !  O  hopes  that  are 

Hung  high,  like  the  cliff-swallow's  perilous  nest, 
Most  like  to  fall  when  fullest,  and  that  jar 

With  every  heavier  billow!  O  unrest 
Than  balmiest  deeps  of  quiet  sweeter  far ! 

How  did  ye  triumph  now  in  Margaret's  breasi, 
Making  it  readier  to  shrink  and  start 
Than  the  pond-lily's  golden  quivering  heart. 


Here  let  us  pause:  O,  would  the  soul  might  ever 

Achieve  its  immortality  in  youth, 
When  nothing  yet  hath  damped  its  high  endeavor 

After  the  starry  energy  of  truth  ! 
Here  let  us  pause,  and  for  a  moment  sever 

This  gleam  of  sunshine  from  the  days  unruth 
That  sometime  come  to  all,  for  it  is  good 
To  lengthen  to  the  last  a  sunny  mood. 

LIU. 

Hope  skims  o'er  life  as  we  may  sometimes  see 
A  butterfly,  whose  home  is  in  the  (lowers, 

Blown  outward  far  over  the  moaning  sea, 
Remembering  in  vain  its  odorous  bo\vers 

It  flutters  o'er  the  drear  immensity 
To  sink  ere  long :  there  are  not 
many  hours 

Ere  the  heart  wonders  at  the  simple  hope 

That  danced  so  gayly  forth  with  fate 
to  cope. 


LIV. 


But  Faith  comes  ever  after  Hope  is  f.cd, 

Hope's  ghost,  with  sadder  yet  with  fairer  face, 

To  tell  us  that  she  is  but  seeming  dead ; 
That  earth  is  but  her  body's  burial  place. 

Whence  flowers  shall  spring,  on  lowly  hearts  to  shed 
A  fragrant  prophecy  of  heaven's  grace, 

And  that  we  truly  could  not  see  her,  even, 

Till  she  had  flitted  to  her  home  in  heaven. 


"BLOWN  OUTWARD   FAR  O\ 
THE    MOANING  SEA." 


A  LEGEND  OF  BRITTANY. 


PART  SECOND. 


As  one  who,  from  the  sunshine  and  the  green, 

Enters  the  solid  darkness  of  a  cave, 
Nor  knows  what  precipice  or  pit  unseen 

May  yawn  before  him  with 

its  sudden  grave, 
And,  with  hushed  breath,  doth 

often  forward  lean. 
Deeming  he  hears  the  splashing 

of  a  wave 
Dimly  below,  or  feels  a 

damper  air 

From  out  some  dreary  chasm, 
he  knows  not  where  : — 


So,  from  the  sunshine  and  the 

green  of  love, 
We  enter  on  our  story's 

darker  part ; 
And,  though  the  horror  of  it 

well  may  move 
An  impulse  of  repugnance 

in  the  heart, 
Yet  let  us  think,  that,  as  there's 

naught  above 
The  all-embracing  atmosphere 

of  Art, 
So  also  there  is  naught  that 

falls  below 
Her  generous  reach,  though 

grimed  with  guilt  and  woe. 
III. 


'NOR  KNOWS  WHAT  PKKCIPICK 
OR  PIT    UNSEEN." 


Her  fittest  triumph  is  to  show  that  good 

Lurks  in  the  heart  of  evil  evermore, 
That  love,  though  scorned,  and  outcast,  and  withstood, 

16 


B  Xegenfc  of  JBrittang.  17 

Can  without  end  forgive,  and  yet  have  store ; 
God's  love  and  man's  are  of  the  self-same  blood, 

And  He  can  see  thst  always  at  the  door 
Of  foulest  hearts  the  angel-nature  yet 
Knocks  to  return  and  cancel  all  its  debt. 

IV. 

It  ever  is  weak  falsehood's  destiny 

That  her  thick  mask  turns  crystal  to  let  through 
The  unsuspicious  eyes  of  honesty ; 

But  Margaret's  heart  was  too  sincere  and  true 
Aught  but  plain  truth  and  faithfulness  to  see, 

And  Mordred's  for  a  time  a  little  grew 
To  be  like  hers,  won  by  the  mild  reproof 
Of  those  kind  eyes  that  kept  all  doubt  aloof. 

v. 

Full  oft  they  met,  as  dawn  and  twilight  meet 
In  northern  climes;  she  full  of  growing  day, 

As  he  of  darkness,  which  before  her  feet 
Shrank  gradual,  and  faded  quite  away, 

Soon  to  return  ;  for  power  made  love  sweet 

To  him,  and,  when  his  will  had  gained  full  sway, 

The  taste  began  to  pall ;  for  never  power 

Can  sate  the  hungry  soul  beyond  an  hour. 

VI. 

At  first  he  loved  her  truly ;  its  far  goal 

His  weary  heart  had  reached  and  sunk  to  rest : 

She  seemed  a  white-browed  angel  sent  to  roll 
The  heavy  stone  away  which  long  had  prest, 

As  in  a  living  sepulchre,  his  soul: 

But  soon  the  customed  nature  of  his  breast 

Awoke,  and  in  its  iron  hand  once  more 

Shook  the  fierce  lash  that  seared  him  to  the  core. 

VII. 

A  healthy  love  of  power  thaws  the  ice 

Wherewith  sloth  fetters  oft  the  gushing  will ; 

But  when  the  soul  lusts  after  it,  no  vice 
Is  half  so  deadly;  then  it  tries  its  skill 

In  heaping  for  its  sin  some  monstrous  price 
To  make  it  precious;  but,  like  morning,  still 

Comes  the  pale  afterthought,  and  makes  it  see 

The  harlot  whose  poor  slave  it  crouched  to  be. 


r8  S  TLccjcnJ)  of  JBrittang. 

VIII. 

Such  lust  in  Mordred's  soul  had  dug  its  lair, 
Taking  for  ransom  all  good  impulses : 

Love  might  have  saved  him,  which  makes  virtues  rare 
Even  of  our  vices,  as,  upon  his  knees, 

Stout  Kempion  kissed  the  dragon  thrice,  and  there 
Found  in  its  stead  the  maiden,  his  heart's  peace ; 

But  he  loved  Margaret  only  for  the  power 

It  gave  him  o'er  her  heart,  her  virgin  dower. 

IX. 

And,  having  gained  it,  still  he  craved  for  more; 

Margaret  could  yield  no  more  save  innocence, 
And  this  his  thought  would  often  hover  o'er, 

Poising  to  swoop,  not  for  the  glut  of  sense, 
But  to  enjoy  his  mastery  to  the  core. 

And  probe  the  depth  of  his  bad  influence ; 
Such  hunger  gnawed  him  and  such  fierce  unrest, 
As  one  who  hath  a  serpent  in  his  breast. 

x. 

He  wrestled  with  his  will,  he  felt  the  shame, 
The  crowning  anguish,  which  the  spirit  feels 

When  a  pure  instinct  flies  to  whence  it  came, 
And  in  its  place  a  slimy  viper  steals, 

Lulling  asleep  our  guardian  sense  of  blame, 
Till  on  its  throne  our  better  nature  reels: 

He  felt  the  shame,  the  anguish  and  the  sin. 

Yet  oped  his  heart  and  let  the  foul  thing  in. 

XI. 

So  to  his  will  he  won  her  by  degrees, 

Working  upon  her  faith  with  secret  wear, 

Steadfast  and  silent  as  the  tireless  seas 

Gain  on  the  shore ;  his  thirst  he  could  not  bear, 

Once  having  drained  love's  beaker  to  the  lees, 
And,  could  he  quench  its  flame,  he  felt  no  care 

If  he  drank  poison :  so  at  last  he  fell, 

Winning  the  crime  he  plotted  for  so  well. 

XII. 

He  fell  as  doth  the  tempter  ever  fall, 

Even  in  the  gaining  of  his  loathsome  end  ; 

God  doth  not  work  as  man  works,  but  makes  all 
The  crooked  paths  of  ill  to  goodness  tend ; 

Let  him  judge  Margaret!  If  to  be  the  thrall 


B  XecjenD  of  JSrittang.  19 

Of  love,  and  faith  too  generous  to  defend 
Its  very  life  from  him  she  loved,  be  sin, 
What  hope  of  grace  may  the  seducer  win? 

XIII. 

Grim-hearted  world,  that  look'st  with  Levite  eyes 
On  those  poor  fallen  by  too  much  faith  in  man, 

She  that  upon  thy  freezing  threshold  lies, 

starved  to  more  sinning  by  thy  savage  ban, — 

Seeking  that  refuge  because  foulest  vice 
More  godlike  than  thy  virtue  is,  whose  span 

Shuts  out  the  wretched  only,- — is  more  free 

From  all  her  crimes  than  thou  wilt  ever  be ! 

XIV. 

Thou  wilt  not  let  her  wash  thy  dainty  feet 

With  such  salt  things  as  tears,  or  with  rude  hair 

Dry  them,  soft  Pharisee,  that  sit'st  at  meat 

With  him  who  made  her  such,  and  speak'st  him  fair 

Leaving  God's  wandering  lamb  the  while  to  bleat 
Unheeded,  shivering  in  the  pitiless  air: 

Thou  hast  made  prisoned  virtue  show  more  wan 

And  haggard  than  a  vice  to  look  upon. 


Now  many  months  flew  by,  and  weary  grew 

To  Margaret  the  sight  of  happy  things ; 
Blight  fell  on  all  her  Mowers,  instead  of  dew ; 

Shut  round  her  heart  were  now  the  joyous  wings 
Wherewith  it  wont  to  soar ;  yet  not  untrue, 

Though  tempted  much,  her  woman's  nature  clings 
To  its  first  pure  belief,  and  with  sad  eyes 
Looks  backward  o'er  the  gate  of  Paradise. 

XVI. 

Not  wholly  desolate,  nor  quite  shut  out 

From  peace,  are  hearts  that  love,  though  hopelessly; 
Though  with  rude  billows  compassed  all  about, 

They  toss,  lone  shipwrecks,  on  a  dreary  sea, 
Yet  love  hath  glories  which  the  eye  of  doubt 

Withers  to  look  on,  for  he  holds  the  key 
Which  opens  in  the  soul  that  inner  cell, 
Where  in  deep  peace  the  heavenly  instincts  dwell. 

XVII. 

So  Margaret,  though  Mordred  came  less  oft. 

And  winter  frowned  where  spring  had  laughed  before, 


B  Xecjcnfc  of  JBrittang. 

In  his  strange  eyes,  yet  half  her  sadness  doffed, 
And  in  her  silent  patience  loved  him  more  : 

Sorrow  had  made  her  soft  heart  yet  more  soft, 
And  a  new  life  within  her  own  she  bore 

Which  made  her  tenderer,  as  she  felt  it  move 

Heneath  her  breast, — a  refuge  for  her  love. 

XVIII. 

This  babe,  she  thought,  would  surely  bring  him  back, 
And  be  a  bond  forever  them  between  ; 

Before  its  eyes  the  sullen  tempest-rack 

Would  fade,  and  leave  the  face  of  heaven  serene ; 

And  love's  return  doth  more  than  fill  the  lack, 
Which  in  his  absence  withered  the  heart's  green : 

And  yet  a  dim  forboding  still  would  flit 

Between  her  and  her  hope  to  darken  it. 

XIX. 

She  could  not  figure  forth  a  happy  fate, 

Even  for  this  life  from  heaven  so  newly  come ; 

The  earth  must  needs  be  doubly  desolate 
To  him  scarce  parted  from  a  fairer  home : 

Such  boding  heavier  on  her  bosom  sate 

One  night,  as,  standing  in  the  twilight  gloani, 

She  strained  her  eyes  beyond  that  dizzy  verge 

At  whose  foot  faintly  breaks  the  future's  surge. 

XX. 

Poor  little  spirit!  naught  but  shame  and  woe 

Nurse  the  sick  heart  whose  lifeblood  nurses  thine: 

Yet  not  those  only ;  love  hath  triumphed  so, 
As  for  thy  sake  makes  sorrow  more  divine  : 

And  yet,  though  thou  be  pure,  the  world  is  foe 
To  purity,  if  born  in  such  a  shrine ; 

And,  having  trampled  it  for  struggling  thence, 

Smiles  to  itself  and  calls  it  Providence. 

XXI. 

O  mockery,  that  aught  unruth  and  hard 
Behind  God's  name  its  ugly  face  shall  veil ! 

Sad  human  nature,  that  o'er  flint  and  shard 

With  bleeding  feet  shrink'st  onward  wan  and  pale, 

Believing  'tis  thy  doom  to  be  ill-starred, 
Since  e'en  Religion  sanctions  the  foul  tale, 

And  hating  God,  because  man's  creeds  but  grant 

What  they  his  blessings  call — toil,  woe  and  want ! 


B  iegenD  of  JBrittang.  21 

XXII. 

As  thus  she  mused,  a  shadow  seemed  to  rise 
From  out  her  thought,  and  turn  to  dreariness 

All  blissful  hopes  and  sunny  memories, 

And  the  quick  blood  doth  curdle  up  and  press 

About  her  heart,  which  seemed  to  shut  its  eyes 
And  hush  itself,  as  who  with  shuddering  guess 

Harks  through  the  gloom  and  dreads  e'en  now  to  feel 

Through  his  hot  breast  the  icy  slide  of  steel. 

XXIII. 

Hut,  at  that  heart  beat,  while  in  dread  she  was, 

In  the  low  wind  the  honey  suckles  gleam, 
A  dewy  thrill  flits  through  the  heavy  grass, 

And,  looking  forth,  she  saw,  as  in  a  dream, 
Within  the  wood  the  moonlight's  shadowy  mass : 

Night's  starry  heart  yearning  to  hers  doth  seem, 
And  the  deep  sky,  full-hearted  with  the  moon, 
Folds  round  her  all  the  happiness  of  June. 

XXIV. 

What  fear  could  face  a  heaven  and  earth  like  this? 

What  silveriest  cloud  could  hang  'neath  such  a  sky? 
A  tide  of  wondrous  and  unwonted  bliss 

Rolls  back  through  all  her  pulses  suddenly, 
As  if  some  seraph,  who  had  learned  to  kiss 

From  the  fair  daughters  of  the  world  gone  by, 
Has  wedded  so  his  fallen  light  with  hers, 
Such  sweet,  strange  joy  through  soul  and  body  stirs. 

xxv. 

So  God  leads  back  in  silence  those  who  err 
From  noble  promptings,  to  his  hope  again ; 

So  gentle  Nature  plays  the  comforter 

To  all  who  seek  at  man's  proud  door  in  vain : 

And  gladly  once  again  awoke  in  her 

The  peace  that  long  in  drowsy  dark  had  lain, 

And  she  could  feel  that  hope  is  never  flown, 

That  God  ne'er  leaves  the  soul  to  grope  alone. 

XXVI. 

Now  seek  we  Mordred :  He  who  did  not  fear 
The  crime,  yet  fears  the  latent  consequence : 

If  it  should  reach  a  brother  Templar's  ear, 
It  haply  might'be  made  a  good  pretence 

To  cheat  him  of  the  hope  he  held  most  dear ; 


22  a  XegenD  of 

For  he  had  spared  no  thought's  or  deed's  expense. 
That  by  and  by  might  help  his  wish  to  clip 
Its  darling  bride — the  high  grand-mastership. 


"TI'ON  HIS  CASEMEXT,   WITH  A  KNOTTED  HKOW. 
HE  LEANED  AND   MUSED." 

XXVII. 

Upon  his  casement,  with  a  knotted  brow, 

He  leaned  and  mused  ;  dark  shadows  came  and  past 


S  ILegenD  of  JBrittang.  23 

O'er  his  pale  cheek  ;  some  dreadful  tempting  now 
Coils  round  his  heart,  which  struggles  all  aghast 

And  fain  would  shake  it  off,  yet  knows  not  how, 
Then  struggles  less  and  less,  and  yields  at  last, 

And  the  black  serpent,  colder  and  more  cold, 

Half  sleeps,  but  tightens  still  its  scaly  fold. 


The  apathy,  ere  a  crime  resolved  is  done, 

Is  scarce  less  dreadful  than  remorse  for  crime; 

By  no  allurement  can  the  soul  be  won 
From  brooding  o'er  the  weary  creep  of  time: 

Mordred  stole  forth  into  the  happy  sun, 
Striving  to  hum  a  scrap  of  Breton  rhyme, 

But  the  sky  struck  him  speechless,  and  he  tried 

In  vain  to  summon  up  his  callous  pride. 

XXIX. 

In  the  court-yard  a  fountain  leaped  alway, 
A  Triton  blowing  jewels  through  his  shell 

Into  the  sunshine;  Mordred  turned  away, 
Weary  because  the  stone  face  did  not  tell 

Of  weariness,  nor  could  he  bear  to-day, 

Heartsick,  to  hear  the  patient  sink  and  swell 

Of  winds  among  the  leaves,  or  golden  bees 

Drowsily  humming  in  the  orange-trees. 

XXX. 

All  happy  sights  and  sounds  now  came  to  him 
Like  a  reproach :  he  wandered  far  and  wide, 

Following  the  lead  of  his  unquiet  whim, 
But  still  there  went  a  something  at  his  side 

That  made  the  cool  breeze  hot,  the  sunshine  dim 
It  would  not  flee,  it  could  not  be  defied, 

He  could  not  see  it,  but  he  felt  it  there 

By  the  damp  chill  that  crept  among  his  hair. 


Day  wore  at  last ;  the  evening  star  arose, 
And  throbbing  in  the  sky  grew  red  and  set; 

Then  with  a  guilty,  wavering  step  he  goes 
To  the  hid  nook  where  they  so  oft  had  met 

In  happier  season,  for  his  heart  well  knows 
That  he  is  sure  to  find  poor  Margaret 

Watching  and  waiting  there  with  lovelorn  breast 

Around  her  young  dream's  rudely  scattered  nest. 


24  &  XccjenD  of  JSrittang. 

XXXII. 

Swifter  and  paler  than  a  sheeted  ghost 

Out  of  the  heavy  darkness  glimmereth 
To  tell  some  widowed  heart  that  all  is  lost, 

He  started  close  beside  her  with  hard  breath 
And  heavy,  as  of  one  long  tempest-tost 

On  the  wild  main  of  guilty  thoughts,  where  death 
And  life  strive  for  the  spirit,  not  the  clay, 
And  death's  lean  hand  hath  wellnigh  clutched  its  prey. 

XXXIII. 

"  Sweet  Margaret!"  he  said,  but  in  his  tone 

A  something  froze  her,  as  if  duty  tried 
To  mock  the  voice  of  love  now  long  since  flown, 

And  made  her  feel,  with  Mordred  at  her  side, 
More  palpably  and  bitterly  alone  : 

There  stood  they,  she  but  doubly  beautified 
By  her  meek  sadness,  and  the  moon's  pale  glow, 
He  seeming  darker  for  that  light  to  grow. 

xxxiv. 
Why  follow  here  that  grim  old  chronicle 

Which  counts  the  dagger-strokes  and  drops  of  blood  ? 
Enough  that  Margaret  by  his  mad  steel  fell, 

Unmoved  by  murder  from  her  trusting  mood, 
Smiling  on  him  as  Heaven  smiles  on  Hell. 

With  a  sad  love,  remembering  when  he  stood 
Not  fallen  yet,  the  unsealer  of  her  heart, 
Of  all  her  holy  dreams  the  holiest  part. 

XXXV. 

His  crime  complete,  scarce  knowing  what  he  did, 
(So  goes  the  tale, )  beneath  the  altar  there 

In  the  high  church  the  stiffening  corpse  he  hid, 
And  then, to  'scape  that  suffocating  air, 

Like  a  scared  ghoule  out  of  the  porch  he  slid ; 
But  his  strained  eyes  saw  bloodspots  everywhere, 

And  ghastly  faces  thrust  themselves  between 

His  soul  and  hopes  of  peace  with  blasting  mien. 

xxxvi. 
His  heart  went  out  within  him,  like  a  spark 

Dropt  in  the  sea;  wherever  he  made  bold 
To  turn  his  eyes,  he  saw,  all  stiff  and  stark, 

Pale  Margaret  lying  dead ;  the  lavished  gold 
Of  her  loose  hair  seemed  in  the  cloudy  dark 


"  ENOUGH  THAT  MAROARET  BY  HIS  MAD  STEEL  FELL.'' 


26  a  XegenD  of  JBrittang. 

To  spread  a  glory,  and  a  thousandfold 
More  strangely  pale  and  beautiful  she  grew : 
Her  silence  stabbed  his  conscience  through  and  through 

XXXVII. 

Or  visions  of  past  days, — a  mother's  eyes 

That  smiled  down  on  the  fair  boy  at  her  knee, 

Whose  happy  upturned  face  to  hers  replies, — 
He  saw  sometimes;  or  Margaret  mournfully 

Gazed  on  him  full  of  doubt,  as  one  who  tries 
To  crush  belief  that  does  love  injury; 

Then  she  would  wring  her  hands,  but  soon  again 

Love's  patience  glimmered  out  through  cloudy  pain. 

XXXVIII. 

Meanwhile  he  dared  not  go  and  steal  away 
The  silent,  dead-cold  witness  of  his  sin ; 

He  had  not  feared  the  life,  but  that  dull  clay, 
Those  open  eyes  that  show  3d  the  death  within, 

Would  surely  stare  him  mad  ;  yet  all  the  day 
A  dreadful  impulse,  whence  his  will  could  win 

No  refuge,  made  him  linger  in  the  aisle, 

Freezing  with  his  wan  look  each  greeting  smile. 

XXXIX. 

Now,  on  the  second  day,  there  was  to  be 
A  festival  in  church :  from  far  and  near 

Came  flocking  in  the  sun-burnt  peasantry, 

And  knights  and  dames  with  stately  antique  cheer, 

Blazing  with  pomp,  as  if  all  faerie 

Had  emptied  her  quaint  halls,  or  as  it  were. 

The  illuminated  marge  of  some  old  book, 

While  we  were  gazing,  life  and  motion  took. 

XL. 
When  all  were  entered,  and  the  roving  eyes 

Of  all  were  staid,    ome  upon  faces  bright, 
Some  on  the  priests,  some  on  the  traceries 

That  decked  the  slumber  of  a  marble  knight, 
And  all  the  rustlings  over  that  arise 

From  recognizing  tokens  of  delight, 
When  friendly  glances  meet, — then  silent  ease 
Spread  o'er  the  multitude  by  slow  degrees. 

XLI. 

Then  swelled  the  organ :  up  through  choir  and  nave 
The  music  trembled  with  an  inward  thrill 


a  legenO  of  JBrfttang.  27 

Of  bliss  at  its  own  grandeur :  wave  on  wave 

Its  flood  of  mellow  thunder  rose,  until 
The  hushed  air  shivered  with  the  throb  it  gave, 

Then,  poising  for  a  moment,  il  stood  still, 
And  sank  and  rose  again,  to  burst  in  spray 
That  wandered  into  silence  far  away, 

XLII. 

Like  to  a  mighty  heart  the  music  seemed, 
That  yearns  with  melodies  it  cannot  speak, 

Until,  in  grand  despair  of  what  it  dreamed, 
In  the  agony  of  effort  it  doth  break, 

Yet  triumphs  breaking;  on  it  rushed  and  streamed 
And  wantoned  in  its  might,  as  when  a  lake, 

Long  pent  among  the  mountains,  bursts  its  walls 

And  in  one  crowding  gush  leaps  forth  and  falls. 

XLIII. 
Deeper  and  deeper  shudders  shook  the  air, 

As  the  huge  bass  kept  gathering  heavily. 
Like  thunder  when  it  rouses  in  its  lair, 

And  with  its  hoarse  growl  shakes  the  low-hung  sky : 
It  grew  up  like  a  darkness  everywhere, 

Filling  the  vast  cathedral;  suddenly, 
From  the  dense  mass  a  boy's  clear  treble  broke 
Like  lightning,  and  the  full-toned  choir  awoke. 

XLIV 
Through  gorgeous  windows  shone  the  sun  aslant, 

Brimming  the  church  with  gold  and  purple  mist, 
Meet  atmosphere  to  bosom  that  rich  chant, 

Where  fifty  voices  in  one  strand  did  twist 
Their  varicolored  tones,  and  left  no  want 

To  the  delighted  soul,  which  sank  abyssed 
In  the  warm  music-cloud,  while,  far  below, 
The  organ  heaved  its  surges  to  and  fro, 

XLV. 
As  if  a  lark  should  suddenly  drop  dead 

While  the  blue  air  yet  trembled  with  its  song, 
So  snapped  at  once  that  music's  golden  thread, 

Struck  by  a  nameless  fear  that  leapt  along 
From  heart  to  heart,  and  like  a  shadow  spread 

With  instantaneous  shiver  through  the  throng, 
So  that  some  glanced  behind,  as  half  aware 
A  hideous  shape  of  dread  were  standing  there. 


KKOM   THE   DENSK  MASS   A   HOY'S  CLEAR  TREBLK  BROKE. 


B  legend  of  JBrtttang.  29 

XLVI. 

As,  when  a  crowd  of  pale  men  gather  round, 

Watching  an  eddy  in  the  leaden  deep, 
From  which  they  deem  the  body  of  one  drowned 

Will  be  cast  forth,  from  face  to  face  doth  creep 
An  eager  dread  that  holds  all  tongues  fast  bound, 

Until  the  horror,  with  a  ghastly  leap 
Starts  up,  its  dead  blue  arms  stretched  aimlessly, 
Heaved  with  the  swinging  of  the  careless  sea, — 

XI.VII. 

So  in  the  faces  of  all  these  there  grew, 

As  by  one  impulse,  a  dark,  freezing  awe, 
Which,  with  a  fearful  fascination  drew 

All  eyes  toward  the  altar ;  damp  and  raw 
The  air  grew  suddenly,  and  no  man  knew 

Whether  perchance  his  silent  neighbor  saw 
The  dreadful  thing,  which  all  were  sure  would  rise 
To  scare  the  strained  lids  wider  from  their  e)es. 


The  incense  trembled  as  it  upward  sent 

Its  slow,  uncertain  thread  of  wandering  blue, 

As  *t  were  the  only  living  element 

In  all  the  church,  so  deep  the  stillness  grew; 

It  seemed  one  might  have  heard  it,  as  it  went. 
Give  out  an  audible  rustle,  curling  through 

The  midnight  silence  of  that  awe-struck  air, 

More  hushed  than  death,  though  so  much  life  was  there. 

XLIX. 
Nothing  they  saw,  but  a  low  voice  was  heard 

Threading  the  ominous  silence  of  that  fear, 
Gentle  and  terrorless  as  if  a  bird, 

Wakened  by  some  volcano's  glare,  should  cheer 
The  murk  air  with  his  song ;  yet  every  word 

In  the  cathedral's  farthest  arch  seemed  near, 
As  if  it  spoke  to  every  one  apart, 
Like  the  clear  voice  of  conscience  in  each  heart. 

L. 

Rest,  to  weary  hearts  thou  art  most  dear! 
O  Silence,  after  life's  bewildering  din, 

Thou  art  most  welcome,  whether  in  the  seat- 
Days  of  our  age  thou  comest,  or  we  win 

Thy  poppy-wreath  in  youth  !  then  wherefore  here 


30  B  XcgcnD  of 

Linger  I  yet,  once  free  to  enter  in 
At  that  wished  gate  which  gentle  Death  doth  ope, 
Into  the  boundless  realm  of  Strength  and  Hope  ? 


The  realm  of  Hope  it  seems,  amid  the  lack 
Of  Hope's  entire  fulfilment  in  the  clay; 

Beyond  our  cloud-horizon 

the  soul's  track 
Seems  clear  and  happy 

into  endless  day ; 
But,  when  we  enter  on  it, 

we  look  back, 
Earth  grows  the  fairer 

as  't  is  far  away, 
The  horizon  moves  before 

us  as  we  go, 
And  where  the  soul  is 
there  is  food  for  woe. 

LII. 

"  The  clay  falls  from  us, 

but  the  spirit  still 
Is  all  unchanged,  save 

in  its  destined  rise 
To  higher  beauty,  which 

upon  its  will 
Depends,  as  here  :  not 

instantly  allwise 
And  good  we  grow,  nor 
gifted  with  the  skill 
Wrong  to  discern  from 
right  with  undazed 

eyes : 
Still  round  us,  only  wider 

the  stern  ring 
Of  darkness  gathers, 
never  vanishing. 

LIII. 

Think  not  in  death  my  love  could  ever  cease : 
If  thou  wast  false,  more  need  there  is  for  me 

Still  to  be  true ;  that  slumber  were  not  peace, 
If  't  were  unvisited  with  dreams  of  thee : 

And  thou  hadst  never  heard  such  words  as  these, 
Save  that  in  heaven  I  must  ever  be 


HE  INCENSE  TKEMBLEI)  AS  IT  UPWARD  SENT.' 


Xegen5  of  JBrtttans.  31 


Most  comfortless  and  wretched,  seeing  this 
Our  unbaptized  babe  shut  out  from  bliss. 

LIV. 
This  little  spirit  with  imploring  eyes 

Wanders  alone  the  dreary  wild  of  space  ; 
The  shadow  of  his  pain  for  ever  lies 

Upon  my  soul  in  this  new  dwelling-place  ; 
His  loneliness  makes  me  in  Paradise 

More  lonely,  and,  unless  I  see  his  face, 
Even  here  for  grief  could  I  lie  down  and  die, 
Save  for  my  curse  of  immortality. 


World  after  world  he  sees  around  him  swim 
Crowded  with  happy  souls,  that  take  no  heed 

Of  the  sad  eyes  that  from  the  night's  faint  rim 
Gaze  sick  with  longing  on  them  as  they  speed 

With  golden  gates,  that  only  shut  out  him ; 

And  shapes  sometimes  from  Hell's  abysses  freed 

Flap  darkly  by  him,  with  enormous  sweep 

Of  wings  that  roughen  wide  the  pitchy  deep. 

LVI. 

I  am  a  mother, — spirits  do  not  shake 

This  much  of  earth  from  them, — and  I  must  pine 
Till  I  can  feel  his  little  hands  and  take 

His  weary  head  upon  this  heart  of  mine; 
And,  might  it  be,  full  gladly  for  his  sake 

Would  I  this  solitude  of  bliss  resign, 
And  be  shut  out  of  Heaven  to  dwell  with  him 
Forever  in  that  silence  drear  and  dim. 

LV1I. 

I  strove  to  hush  my  soul,  and  would  not  speak 
At  first,  for  thy  dear  sake;  a  woman's  love 

Is  mighty,  but  a  mother's  heart  is  weak, 
And  by  its  weakness  overcomes ;  I  strove 

To  smother  bitter  thoughts  with  patience  meek, 
But  still  in  the  abyss  my  soul  would  rove, 

Seeking  my  child,  and  drove  me  here  to  claim 

The  rite  that  gives  him  peace  in  Christ's  dear  name 

LVIII. 

I  sit  and  weep  while  blessed  spirits  sing ; 

I  can  but  long  and  pine  the  while  they  praise, 


32  a  Xciwnfr  of  Ji3nttang. 

And,  leaning  o'er  the  \vall  of  Heaven,  1  fling 
My  voice  to  where  I  deem  my  infant  strays, 

Like  a  robbed  bird  that  cries  in  vain  to  bring 
Her  nestlings  back  beneath  her  wings'  embrace 

But  still  he  answers  not,  and  I  but  know 

That  Heaven  and  earth  are  both  alike  in  woe. 

LIX. 

"  And  thou,  dear  Mordred,  after  penance  done, 
By  Blessed  Mary's  grace  may'st  meet  me  here, 

For  she  it  was  that  pitied  my  sad  moan, 

Herself  not  free  from  mother's  pangs  whilere, 

And  gave  me  leave  to  wander  forth  alone 
To  ask  due  rites  for  him  I  held  so  dear: 

When  Holy  Church  shall  grant  his  soul  release, 

I  shall  possess  my  heart  and  be  at  peace. 


Yes,  ages  hence,  in  joy  we  yet  may  meet, 
By  sorrow  thou,  and  I  by  patience  tried; 

No  steep  is  hard  for  love's  white  feet  to  climb, 
And  faith  is  but  ambition  purified, 

And  hope  and  memory  would  still  be  sweet, 
Though  every  other  joy  were  quite  denied ; 

So  let  us  look  toward  our  gleam  of  light, 

Although  between  lie  leagues  of  barren  night." 

LXI. 

Then  the  pale  priests,  with  ceremony  due, 
Baptized  the  child  within  its  dreadful  tomb 

Beneath  that  mother's  heart,  whose  instinct  true 
Star-like  had  battled  down  the  triple  gloom 

Of  sorrow,  love,  and  death:  young  maidens,  too, 

Strewed  the  pale  corpse  with  many  a  milk  white  bloom 

And  parted  the  bright  hair,  and  on  the  breast 

Crossed  the  unconscious  hands  in  sign  of  rest. 

LXI  I. 

Some  said,  that,  when  the  priest  had  sprinkled  o'er 
The  consecrated  drops,  they  seemed  to  hear 

A  sigh,  as  of  some  heart  from  travail  sore 
Released,  and  then  two  voices  singing  clear, 

Misereatur  Deus,  more  and  more 

Fading  far  upward,  and  their  ghastly  fear 

Fell  from  them  with  that  sound,  as  bodies  fall 

From  souls  upspringing  to  celestial  hall. 


"  WI1KN   TH1 


1'RIKST  HAD  SPRINKI.KI)  ()  KR  THE  CON' K- 
CKATKI)   DKOl'S." 


34  ailccira. 

LX 1 1 1 . 

And  Mordred  seemed  to  hear  it  and  to  grow 

Lighter  at  heart,  and  they  who  marked  him  said, 

That  something  of  the  darkness  of  his  woe 
Had  from  his  stony  eyes  and  visage  fled, 

Which  glimmered  now  with  a  strange  inward  glow, 
As  when  the  sun,  with  tempest-rack  o'erspread, 

Bursts  through  a  sidelong  rift,  and  on  his  scalp 

Goldens  afar  some  huge  cloud-builded  Alp. 

LXIV. 
But  when  they  sought  him  he  was  stark  and  cold, 

The  loathing  spirit  had  spurned  off  the  clay 
That  to  such  crime  had  made  it  overbold : 

Upon  his  breast  a  little  blossom  lay 
Of  amaranth,  such  as  grows  not  in  earth's  mould ; 

Whence  it  had  come  or  how  could  no  man  say, 
But,  after  years  had  passed,  it  only  showed 
The  fresher,  and  its  gold  more  deeply  glowed. 


ALLEGRA. 

I  WOULD  more  natures  were  like  thine, 
That  never  casts  a  glance  before, — 

Thou  Hebe,  who  thy  heart's  bright  wine 
So  lavishly  to  all  dost  pour, 

That  we  who  drink  forget  to  pine, 
And  can  but  dream  of  bliss  in  store. 

Thou  canst  not  see  a  shade  in  life; 

With  sunward  instinct  thou  dost  rise, 
And,  leaving  cloud*  below  at  strife, 

Gazest  undazzled  at  the  skies, 
With  all  their  blazing  splendors  rife, 

A  songful  lark  with  eagle's  eyes. 

Thou  wast  some  foundling  whom  the  Hours 
Nursed,  laughing,  with  the  milk  of  Mirth  ; 

Some  influence  more  gay  than  ours 
Hath  ruled  thy  nature  from  its  birth. 

As  if  thy  natal-stars  were  flowers 

That  shook  their  seeds  round  thee  on  earth. 

And  thou,  to  lull  thine  infant  rest, 
Wast  cradled  like  an  Indian  child ; 


Cbe  fountain. 

All  pleasant  winds  from  south  and  west 
With  lullabies  thine  ears  beguiled, 

Rocking  thee  in  thine  oriole's  nest, 
Till  nature  looked  at  thee  and  smiled. 

Thine  every  fancy  seems  to  borrow 
A  sunlight  from  thy  childish  years, 

Making  a  golden  cloud  of  sorrow, 
A  hope-lit  rainbow  out  of  tears, — 

Thy  heart  is  certain  of  to-morrow, 
Though  'yond  to-day  it  never  peers. 

I  would  more  natures  were  like  thine, 

So  innocently  wild  and  free, 
Whose  sad  thoughts,  even,  leap  and  shine, 

Like  sunny  wavelets  in  the  sea, 
Making  us  mindless  of  the  brine 

In  gazing  on  the  brilliancy. 


35 


THE    FOUNTAIN. 

INTO  the  sunshine, 

Full  of  the  light, 
Leaping  and  flashing 

From  morn  till  night ! 

Into  the  moonlight, 
Whiter  than  snow, 

Waving,  so  flower-like 
When  the  winds  blow ! 

Into  the  starlight 
Rushing  in  spray, 

Happy  at  midnight, 
Happy  by  day ! 

Ever  in  motion, 

Blithesome  and  cheery, 
Still  climbing  heavenward. 

Never  aweary;  — 

Glad  of  all  weathers, 
Still  seeming  best, 

Upward  or  downward, 
Motion  thy  rest  ;— 


"INTO  THE  SUXSHIXK,  FULL 
OF  THE  LIGHT." 


36  Cbc  SbcpbcrC*  of  Iking  Bfcmctus. 

Full  of  a  nature 
Nothing  can  tame. 

Changed  every  moment. 
Ever  the  same  ; — 

Ceaseless  aspiring. 
Ceaseless  content. 

Darkness  or  sunshine 
Thy  element ; — 

Glorious  fountain  ! 

Let  my  heart  be 
Fresh,  changeful,  constant, 

Upward,  like  thee ! 


THE  SHEPHERD  OF   KINV,   ADMKTl'S 

THERE  came  a  youth  upon  the  earth. 

Some  thousand  years  ago, 
Whose  slender  hands  were  nothing  worth, 
Whether  to  plough,  or  reap,  or  sow. 

He  made  a  lyre,  and  drew  therefrom 

Music  so  strange  and  rich. 
That  all  men  loved  to  hear, — and  some 
Muttered  of  fagots  for  a  witch. 

But  King  Admetus,  one  who  had 

Pure  taste  by  right  divine, 
Decreed  his  singing  not  too  bad 
To  hear  between  the  cups  of  wine : 

And  so,  well-pleased  with  being  soothed 

Into  a  sweet  half-sleep, 
Three  times  his  kingly  beard  he  smoothed 
And  made  him  viceroy  o'er  his  sheep. 

His  words  were  simple  words  enough 

And  yet  he  used  them  so, 
That  what  in  other  mouths  were  rough 
In  his  seemed  musical  and  low. 

Men  called  him  but  a  shiftless  youth, 
In  whom  no  good  they  saw; 


Cbe  Cohen.  •  37 

And  yet,  unwittingly,  in  truth, 

They  made  his  careless  words  their  law. 

They  knew  not  how  he  learned  at  all, 

For,  long  hour  after  hour, 
He  sat  and  watched  the  dead  leaves  fall, 
Or  mused  upon  a  common  flower. 

It  seemed  the  loveliness  of  things 

Did  teach  him  all  their  use, 
For,  in  mere  weeds,  and  stones,  and  springs, 
He  found  a  healing  power  profuse. 

Men  granted  that  his  speech  was  wise, 

But,  when  a  glance  they  caught 
Of  his  slim  grace  and  woman's  eyes, 
They  laughed,  and  called  him  good-for-naught. 

Yet  after  he  was  dead  and  gone, 

And  e'en  his  memory  dim, 
Earth  seemed  more  sweet  to  live  upon, 
More  full  of  love,  because  of  him. 

And  day  by  day  more  holy  grew 
Each  spot  where  he  had  trod, 
Till  after-poets  only  knew 
Their  firstborn  brother  as  a  god. 

1842. 


THE   TOKEN. 

IT  is  a  mere  wild  rosebud, 

Ouite  sallow  now,  and  dry, 
Yet  there's  something  wondrous  in  it,— 

Some  gleams  of  days  gone  by, — 
Dear  sights  and  sounds  that  are  to  me 
The  fingerposts  of  memory, 
And  stir  my  heart's  blood  far  below 
Its  short-lived  waves  of  joy  and  woe. 

Lips  must  fade  and  roses  wither, 

All  sweet  times  be  o'er, — 
They  only  smile,  and,  murmuring  "  Thither! 

Stay  with  us  no  more : 


'HE  SAT  AND   WATCHED  THE  J)KAD   I.KAVKS  FAI.I-. 


39 


And  yet  oft-times  a  look  or  smile, 
Forgotten  in  a  kiss's  while, 
Years  after  from  the  dark  will  start, 
And  flash  across  the  trembling  heart. 

Thou  hast  given  me  many  roses, 

But  never  one,  like  this, 
O'erfloods  both  sense  and  spirit 

With  such  a  deep,  wild  bliss ; — 
We  must  have  instincts  that  glean  up 
Sparse  drops  of  this  life  in  the  cup, 
Whose  taste  shall  give  us  all  that  we 
Can  prove  of  immortality. 

Earth's  stablest  things  are  shadows, 

And,  in  the  life  to  come, 
Haply  some  chance-saved  trifle 

May  tell  of  this  old  home : 
As  now  sometimes  we  seem  to  find, 
In  a  dark  crevice  of  the  mind, 
Some  relic,  which,  long  pondered  o'er, 
Hints  faintly  at  a  life  before. 


There  is  a  light  in  thy  blue  eyes, 

Like  an  eternal  morn, 
A  glorious  freshness  of  the  skies, 

That  dulls  not,  nor  is  worn, 
Though  all  earth's  flitting  shadows  try 
Its  sunny  immortality. 

From  thee  I  learn  all  gentleness, 
From  thee  I  learn  all  truth; 


40  Xove. 


And  from  thy  brimming  heart's  excess. 

My  spirit  garners  youth, 
Gleaning,  in  harvest-hours  like  this. 
Ripe  winter-stores  of  golden  bliss. 

(.),  happy  soul!  O,  happy  heart! 

O,  happy  dreams  of  mine ! 
That  thus  can  linger  all  apart 

Within  so  charmed  a  shrine. 
While  the  old  weary  earth  turns  round 
With  all  its  strife  of  empty  sound  ! 

1841. 


LOVE. 

True  love  is  but  an  humble,  low-born  thing, 

And  hath  its  food  served  up  in  earthen  ware; 

It  is  a  thing  to  walk  with,  hand  in  hand, 

Through  the  every-dayness  of  this  work-day  world, 

Baring  its  tender  feet  to  every  roughness, 

Yet  letting  not  one  heart-beat  go  astray 

From  Beauty's  law  of  plainness  and  content ; 

A  simple,  tire-side  thing,  whose  quiet  smile 

Can  warm  earth's  poorest  hovel  to  a  home ; 

Which,  when  our  autumn  cometh,  as  it  must. 

And  life  in  the  chill  wind  shivers  bare  and  leafless. 

Shall  still  be  blest  with  Indian-summer  youth 

In  bleak  November,  and,  with  thankful  heart. 

Smile  on  its  ample  stores  of  garnered  fruit, 

As  full  of  sunshine  to  our  aged  eyes 

As  when  it  nursed  the  blossoms  of  our  spring. 

Such  is  true  Love,  which  steals  into  the  heart 

\Vith  feet  as  silent  as  the  lightsome  dawn 

That  kisses  smooth  the  rough  brows  of  the  dark, 

And  hath  its  will  through  blissful  gentleness, — 

Not  like  a  rocket,  which,  with  savage  glare, 

Whirrs  suddenly  up,  then  bursts,  and  leaves  the  night 

Painfully  quivering  on  the  dazed  eyes ; 

A  love  that  gives  and  takes,  that  seeth  faults, 

Not  with  flaw-seeking  eyes  like  needle-points, 

But,  loving  kindly,  ever  looks  them  down 

With  the  o'ercoming  faith  of  meek  forgiveness ; 

A  love  that  shall  be  new  and  fresh  each  hour, 

As  is  the  golden  mystery  of  sunset, 


<Jo  jperDita,  Singing.  41 

Or  the  sweet  coming  of  the  evening-star, 

Alike,  and  yet  most  unlike,  every  day, 

And  seeming  ever  best  and  fairest  ncrw  ; 

A  love  that  doth  not  kneel  for  what  it  seeks, 

But  faces  Truth  and  Beauty  as  their  peer, 

Showing  its  worthiness  of  noble  thoughts 

By  a  clear  sense  of  inward  nobleness ; 

A  love  that  in  its  object  findeth  not 

All  grace  and  beauty,  and  enough  to  sate 

Its  thirst  of  blessing,  but,  in  all  of  good 

Found  there,  it  sees  but  Heaven-granted  types 

Of  good  and  beauty  in  the  soul  of  man, 

And  traces,  in  the  simplest  heart  that  beats, 

A  family-likeness  to  its  chosen  one, 

That  claims  of  it  the  rights  of  brotherhood. 

For  Love  is  blind  but  with  the  fleshly  eye, 

That  so  its  inner  sight  may  be  more  clear ; 

And  outward  shows  of  beauty  only  so 

Are  needful  at  the  first,  as  is  a  hand 

To  guide  and  to  uphold  an  infant's  steps : 

Great  spirits  need  them  not ;  their  earnest  look 

Pierces  the  body's  mask  of  thin  disguise, 

And  beauty  ever  is  to  them  revealed, 

Behind  the  unshapel'est,  meanest  lump  of  clay, 

With  arms  outstretched  and  eager  face  ablaze, 

Yearning  to  be  but  understood  and  loved. 

1840. 


TO  PERDITA,    SINGING. 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain, 

Leaping  up  in  clear  moonshine : 
Silver,  silver,  ever  mounting, 
Ever  sinking, 
Without  thinking, 
To  that  brimful  heart  of  thine. 

Every  sad  and  happy  feeling, 

Thou  hast  had  in  bygone  years, 
Through  thy  lips  comes  stealing,  stealing, 

Clear  and  low ; 
All  thy  smiles  and  all  thy  tears 

In  thy  voice  awaken, 
And  sweetness,  wove  of  joy  and  woe, 


42  Go  perDita,  Singing. 

From  their  teaching  it  hath  taken : 
Feeling  and  music  move  together, 
Like  a  swan  and  shadow,  ever 
Heaving  on  a  sky-blue  river 
In  a  day  of  cloudless  weather. 

It  hath  caught  a  touch  of  sadness, 

Yet  it  is  not  sad  ; 
It  hath  tones  of  clearest  gladness, 

Yet  it  is  not  glad  ; 
A  dim,  sweet  twilight  voice  it  is, 

Where  to-day's  accustomed  blue 
Is  over-grayed  with  memories, 

With  starry  feelings  quivered  through. 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain 
Leaping  up  in  sunshine  bright, 
And  I  never  weary  counting 
Its  clear  droppings,  lone  and  single, 
Or  when  in  one  full  gush  they  mingle, 
Shooting  in  melodious  light. 

Thine  is  music  such  as  yields 
Feelings  of  old  brooks  and  fields, 
And,  around  this  pent-up  room, 
Sheds  a  woodland,  free  perfume ; 

O,  thus  for  ever  sing  to  me ! 

O,  thus  forever! 

The  green,  bright  grass  of  childhood  bring  to  me, 
Flowing  like  an  emerald  river, 
And  the  bright-blue  skies  above ! 
O,  sing  them  back,  as  fresh  as  ever, 
Into  the  bosom  of  my  love, — 
The  sunshine  and  the  merriment, 
The  unsought,  evergreen  content, 

Of  that  never  cold  time, 
The  joy,  that,  like  a  clear  breeze,  went 

Through  and  through  the  old  time ! 

Peace  sits  within  thine  eyes. 
With  white  hands  crossed  in  joyful  rest, 
While,  through  thy  lips  and  face,  arise 
The  melodies  from  out  thy  breast; 

She  sits  and  sings, 

With  folded  wings 

And  white  arms  crost, 


THINE  IS  MUSIC  SfCII  AS  YIELDS  FEELINGS  OF  OLD   BROOKS  AND  FIELDS. 


44  Cbe  fforlorn. 

"  Weep  not  for  passed  things, 
They  are  not  lost : 

The  beauty  which  the  summer  time 

O'er  thine  opening  spirit  shed 

The  forest  oracles  sublime 

That  filled  thy  soul  with  joyous  dread, 

The  scent  of  every  smallest  flower 

That  made  thy  heart  sweet  for  an  hour.  — 

Yea,  every  holy  influence, 

Flowing  to  thee,  thou  knewest  not  whence, 

In  thine  eyes  to-day  is  seen, 

Fresh  as  it  hath  ever  been ; 

Promptings  of  Nature,  beckonings  sweet, 

Whatever  led  thy  childish  feet, 

Still  will  linger  unawares 

The  guiders  of  thy  silver  hairs ; 

Every  look  and  every  word 

Which  thou  givest  forth  to-day, 

Tell  of  the  singing  of  the  bird 

Whose  music  stilled  thy  boyish  play." 

Thy  voice  is  like  a  fountain, 

Twinkling  up  in  sharp  starlight, 

When  the  moon  behind  the  mountain 

Dims  the  low  East  with  faintest  white, 
Ever  darkling, 
Ever  sparkling, 

We  know  not  if  't  is  dark  or  bright ; 
But,  when  the  great  moon  hath  rolled  round, 

And,  sudden-slow,  its  solemn  power 
Grows  from  behind  its  black,  clear-edged  bound, 

No  spot  of  dark  the  fountain  keepeth, 

But,  swift,  as  opening  eyelids,  leapeth 

Into  a  waving  silver  flower. 


THE  FORLORN. 

THE  night  is  dark,  the  stinging  sleet, 

Swept  by  the  bitter  gusts  of  air, 
Drives  whistling  down  the  lonely  street, 

And  stiffens  on  the  pavement  bare. 

The  street-lamps  flare  and  struggle  dim 

Through  the  white  sleet-clouds  as  they  pass, 


Gbe  forlorn.  45 

Or,  governed  by  a  boisterous  whim, 
Drop  down  and  rattle  on  the  glass. 

One  poor,  heart-broken,  outcast  girl 

Faces  the  east-wind's  searching  flaws, 
And,  as  about  her  heart  they  whirl, 

Her  tattered  cloak  more  tightly  draws. 

The  flat  brick  walls  look  cold  and  bleak, 

Her  bare  feet  to  the  sidewalk  freeze ; 
Yet  dares  she  not  a  shelter  seek, 

Though  faint  with  hunger  and  disease. 

The  sharp  storm  cuts  her  forehead  bare, 
And,  piercing  through  her  garments  thin. 

Beats  on  her  shrunken  breast,  and  there 
Makes  colder  the  cold  heart  within. 

She  lingers  where  a  ruddy-glow 

Streams  outward  through  an  open  shutter, 

Giving  more  bitterness  to  woe, 
More  loneness  to  desertion  utter. 

One  half  the  cold  she  had  not  felt, 

Until  she  saw  this  gush  of  light 
Spread  warmly  forth,  and  seem  to  melt 

Its  slow  way  through  the  deadening  night. 

She  hears  a  woman's  voice  within, 

Singing  sweet  words  her  childhood  knew, 

And  years  of  misery  and  sin 

Furl  off  and  leave  her  heaven  blue. 

Her  freezing  heart,  like  one  who  sinks 

Outwearied  in  the  drifting  snow, 
Drowses  to  deadly  sleep,  and  thinks 

No  longer  of  its  hopeless  woe : 

Old  fields,  and  clear  blue  summer  days, 
Old  meadows,  green  with  grass  and  trees, 

That  shimmer  through  the  trembling  haze 
And  whiten  in  the  western  breeze, — 

Old  faces,— all  the  friendly  past 
Rises  within  her  heart  again, 


46  ttbc  Jforlorn. 

And  sunshine  from  her  childhood  cast 
Makes  summer  of  the  icy  rain. 

Enhaloed  by  a  mild,  warm  glow, 

From  all  humanity  apart, 
She  hears  old  footsteps  wandering  slow 

Through  the  lone  chambers  of  her  heart. 

Outside  the  porch  before  the  door, 
Her  cheek  upon  the  cold,  hard  stone 

She  lies,  no  longer  foul  and  poor, 
No  longer  dreary  and  alone. 

Next  morning,  something  heavily 
Against  the  opening  door  did  weigh, 

And  there,  from  sin  and  sorrow  free, 
A  woman  on  the  threshold  lay. 


"A   WOMAN  ()NT   THE  TIIKF.SHOLL)  LAY." 

A  smile  upon  the  wan  lips  told 

That  she  had  found  a  calm  release, 

And  that,  from  out  the  want  and  cold, 
The  song  had  borne  her  soul  in  peace. 

For,  whom  the  heart  of  Man  shuts  out. 
Straightway  the  heart  of  God  takes  in, 

And  fences  them  all  round  about 

With  silence  mid  the  world's  loud  din ; 

And  one  of  his  great  charities 
Is  Music,  and  it  doth  not  scorn 


Song.  47 


To  close  the  lids  upon  the  eyes 
Of  the  polluted  and  forlorn  ; 

Far  was  she  from  her  childhood's  home, 
Farther  in  guilt  had  wandered  thence, 

Yet  thither  it  had  bid  her  come 
To  die  in  maiden  innocence. 


SONG. 

O  MOONLIGHT  deep  and  tender, 
A  year  and  more  agone. 

Your  mist  of  golden  splendor 
Round  my  betrothal  shone  ! 

O  elm-leaves  dark  and  dewy, 
The  very  same  ye  seem, 

The  lo\v  wind  trembles  through  ye, 
Ye  murmur  in  my  dream  ! 

O  river,  dim  with  distance, 

Flo\v  thus  forever  by, 
A  part  of  my  existence 

Within  your  heart  doth  lie! 

O  stars,  ye  saw  our  meeting, 
Two  beings  and  one  soul, 

Two  hearts  so  madly  beating 
To  mingle  and  be  whole ! 

O  happy  night,  deliver 

Her  kisses  back  to  me, 
Or  keep  them  all,  and  give  her 

A  blissful  dream  of  me! 

1842. 


MIDNIGHT. 

THE  moon  shines  white  and  silent 
On  the  mist,  which,  like  a  tide 

Of  some  enchanted  ocean, 

O'er  the  wide  marsh  doth  glide, 


'THK  FIREFLIES  O'ER  THE  MEADOW  IN  i-i'i.sEs  COME  ,\NI>  GO. 

Spreading  its  ghost-like  billows 
Silently  far  and  wide. 

A  vague  and  starry  magic 

Makes  all  things  mysteries, 
And  lures  the  earth's  dumb  spirit 

Up  to  the  longing  skies, — 
I  seem  to  hear  dim  whispers, 

And  tremulous  replies. 

The  fireflies  o'er  the  meadow 

In  pulses  come  and  go; 
The  elm-trees'  heavy  shadow 

Weighs  on  the  grass  below ; 
And  faintly  from  the  distance 

The  dreaming  cock  doth  crow. 

All  things  look  strange  and  mystic, 

The  very  bushes  swell 
And  take  wild  shapes  and  motions, 

As  if  beneath  a  spell, — 
They  seem  not  the  same  lilacs 

From  childhood  known  so  well. 

The  snow  of  deepest  silence 

O'er  everything  doth  fall, 
So  beautiful  and  quiet, 

And  yet  so  like  a  pall, 


SppleDore.  49 


As  if  all  life  were  ended, 
And  rest  were  come  to  all. 

(),  wild  and  wondrous  midnight, 
There  is  a  might  in  thee 

To  make  the  charmed  body 
Almost  like  spirit  be, 

And  give  it  some  faint  glimpses 
Of  immortality! 

1842. 


APPLEDORE. 

How  looks  Appledore  in  a  storm  ? 

I  have  seen  it  when  its  crags  seemed  frantic, 

Butting  against  the  maddened  Atlantic, 
When  surge  after  surge  would  heap  enorme, 

Cliffs  of  Emerald  topped  with  snow, 

That  lifted  and  lifted  and  then  let  go 
A  great  white  avalanche  of  thunder, 

A  grinding,  blinding,  deafening  ire 
Monadnock  might  have  trembled  under ; 

And  the  island,  whose  rock-roots  pierced  below 

To  where  they  are  warmed  with  the  central  tire, 
You  could  feel  its  granite  fibres  racked, 

As  it  seemed  to  plunge  with  a  shudder  and  thrill 

Right  at  the  breast  of  the  swooping  hill. 
And  to  rise  again,  snorting  a  cataract 
( )f  rage-froth  from  every  cranny  and  ledge, 

While  the  sea  drew  its  breath  in  hoarse  and  deep, 
And  the  next  vast  breaker  curled  its  edge, 

Gathering  itself  for  a  mighty  leap. 
North,  east,  and  south  there  are  reefs  and  breakers, 

You  would  never  dream  of  in  smooth  weather, 
That  toss  and  gore  the  sea  for  acres, 

Bellowing  and  gnashing  and  snarling  together ; 
Look  northward,  where  Duck  Island  lies, 
And  over  its  crown  you  will  see  arise, 
Against  a  background  of  slaty  skies, 

A  row  of  pillars  still  and  white 

That  glimmer  and  then  are  out  of  sight, 
As  if  the  moon  should  suddenly  kiss, 

While  you  cross  the  gusty  desert  by  night, 
The  long  colonnades  of  Persepolis, 
And  then  as  sudden  a  darkness  would  follow 


50  Spplefcore. 

To  gulp  the  whole  scene  at  a  single  swallow, 
.     The  city's  ghost,  the  drear  brown  waste. 
And  the  string  of  camels,  clumsy-paced  : — 
Look  southward  for  White  Island  light, 

The  lantern  stands  ninety  feet  o'er  the  tide; 
There  is  first  a  half-mile  of  tumult  and  fight, 
Of  dash  and  roar  and  tumble  and  fright, 

And  surging  bewilderment  wild  and  wide, 
Where  the  breakers  struggle  left  and  right, 

Then  a  mile  or  more  of  rushing  sea, 
And  then  the  light-house  slim  and  lone ; 
And  whenever  the  whole  weight  of  ocean  is  thrown 
Full  and  fair  on  White 

Island  head, 
A  great  mist-jotun  you 

will  see 

Lifting  himself  up  silently 
High  and  huge  o'er  the 

light-house  top, 
With  hands  of  wavering  spray 

outspread, 

Groping  after  the  little  tower, 
That  seems  to  shrink,  and 

shorten,  and  cower, 
Till  the  monster's  arms  of  a 

sudden  drop, 

And  silently  and  fruitlessly 
He  sinks  again  into  the  sea. 

You,  meanwhile,  where 

drenched  you  stand, 
Awaken  once  more  to  the 

rush  and  roar 
And  on  the  rock-point  tighten 

your  hand, 
As  you  turn  and  see  a  valley 

deep, 

That  was  not  there  a  moment  before, 
Suck  rattling  down  between  you  and  a  heap 
Of  toppling  billow,  whose  instant  fall 
Must  sink  the  whole  island  once  for  all — 
Or  watch  the  silenter,  stealthier  seas 

Feeling  their  way  to  you  more  and  more ; 
If  they  once  should  clutch  you  high  as  the  knees 
They  would  whirl  you  down  like  a  sprig  of  kelp, 


•HIGFI  AND  HUGE  O'ER  T1IK  LIGHT-HOUSE 

TOP,  WITH  HANDS  OF  WAVERING 

SPRAY  OUTSPREAD." 


tbc  Dan&ellon. 


Beyond  all  reach  of  hope  or  help ; — 
And  such  in  a  storm  is  Appledore. 


TO  THE  DANDELION. 

DEAR  common  flower,  that  grow'st  beside  the  way, 
Fringing  the  dusty  road  with  harmle'ss  gold, 

First  pledge  of  blithesome  May, 
Which  children  pluck,  and,  full  of  pride,  uphold, 
High-hearted  buccaneers,  o'erjoyed  that  they 
An  Eldorado  in  the  grass  have  found, 

Which  not  the  rich  earth's  ample  round 
May  match  in  wealth — thou  art  more  dear  to  me 
Than  all  the  prouder  Summer-blooms  may  be. 

Gold  such  as  thine  ne'er  drew  the  Spanish  prow 
Through  the  primeval  hush  of  Indian  seas, 

Nor  wrinkled  the  lean  brow 
Of  age,  to  rob  the  lover's  heart  of  ease; 
'Tis  the  Spring's  largess,  which  she  scatters  now 
To  rich  and  poor  alike,  with  lavish  hand, 

Though  most  hearts  never  understand 
To  take  it  at  God's  value,  but  pass  by 
The  offered  wealth  with  unrewarded  eye. 

Thou  art  my  tropics  and  mine  Italy ; 
To  look  at  thee  unlocks 

a  warmer  clime ; 
The  eyes  thou 

givest  me 

Are  in  the  heart  and 
heed  not  space 

or  time : 

Not  in  mid  June  the 
golden-cuirassed 

bee 

Feels  a  more  Summer- 
like,  warm  ravish 
ment 
In  the  white  lily's 

breezy  tent, 
His  conquered  Sybaris, 
than  I,  when  first 
From  the  dark  green  thy  yellow  circles  burst. 

Then  think  I  of  deep  shadows  in  the  grass, — 
Of  meadows  where  in  sun  the  cattle  graze, 


OF  MEADOWS   WHERE   IN   STN   THE  CATTLK  GKAZE. 


52  Dara. 

Where  as  the  breezes  pass, 
The  gleaming  rushes  lean  a  thousand  ways, — • 
Of  leaves  that  slumber  in  a  cloudy  mass, 
Or  whiten  in  the  wind, — of  waters  blue 

That  from  the  distance  sparkle  through 
Some  woodland  gap,—  and  of  a  sky  above 
Where  one  white  cloud  like  a  stray  lamb  doth  move. 

My  childhood's  earliest  thoughts  are  linked  with  thec 
The  sight  of  thee  calls  back  the  robin's  song, 

Who  from  the  dark  old  tree 
Beside  the  door,  sang  clearly  all  day  long, 
And  I,  secure  in  childish  piety, 
Listened  as  if  I  heard  an  angel  sing 

With  news  from  Heaven,  which  he  did  bring 
Fresh  every  day  to  my  untainted  ears, 
When  birds  and  {lowers  and  I  were  happy  peers. 

How  like  a  prodigal  doth  nature  seem, 
When  thou,  for  all  thy  gold,  so  common  art ! 

Thou  teachest  me  to  deem 
More  sacredly  of  every  human  heart, 
Since  each  reflects  in  joy  its  scanty  gleam 
Of  Heaven,  and  could  some  wondrous  secret  show, 

Did  we  but  pay  the  love  we  owe, 
And  with  a  child's  undoubting  wisdom  look 
On  all  these  living  pages  of  God's  book. 


DARA. 

WHEN  Persia's  sceptre  trembled  in  a  hand 
Wilted  by  harem-heats,  and  all  the  land 

Was  hovered  over  by  those  vulture  ills 
That  snuff  decaying  empire  from  afar, 
Then  with  a  nature  balanced  as  a  star, 

Dara  arose,  a  shepherd  of  the  hills, 

He,  who  had  governed  fleecy  subjects  well, 
Made  his  own  village,  by  the  self-same  spell, 

Secure  and  peaceful  as  a  guarded  fold. 
Till,  gathering  strength  by  slow  and  wise  degrees, 
Under  his  sway,  to  neighbor  villages 

Order  returned,  and  faith  and  justice  old. 

Now,  when  it  fortuned  that  a  king  more  wise 
Endued  the  realm  with  brain  and  hands  and  eves, 


S>ara. 

He  sought  on  every  side  men  brave  and  just, 
And  having  heard  the  mountain-shepherd's  praise, 
How  he  renewed  the  mould  of  elder  days, 

To  Dara  gave  a  satrapy  in  trust. 

So  Dara  shepherded  a  province  wide, 

Xor  in  his  viceroy's  sceptre  took  more  pride 


53 


"  'T  WAS  1)ONTE,  AND  ONLY  A  WORN^  SHEPHERD'S  VEST 
WAS  FOUND  WITHIN." 

Than  in  his  crook  before ;  but  Envy  finds 
More  soil  in  cities  than  on  mountains  bare, 
And  the  frank  sun  of  spirits  clear  and  rare 

Breeds  poisonous  fogs  in  low  and  marish  minds. 

Soon  it  was  whispered  at  the  royal  ear 

That,  though  wise  Dara's  province,  year  by  year, 


54  Co  3.  Jf.  D. 

Like  a  great  sponge,  drew  wealth  and  plenty  up, 
Yet,  when  he  squeezed  it  at  the  king's  behest, 
Some  golden  drops,  more  rich  than  all  the  rest, 

Went  to  the  filling  of  his  private  cup. 

For  proof,  they  said  that  wheresoe'er  he  went 
A  chest,  beneath  whose  weight  the  camel  bent, 

Went  guarded,  and  no  other  eye  had  seen 
What  was  therein,  save  only  Dara's  own, 
Yet  when  "t  was  opened,  all  his  tent  was  known 

To  glow  and  lighten  with  heapt  jewels'  sheen. 

The  king  set  forth  for  Dara's  province  straight, 
Where,  as  was  tit,  outside  his  city's  gate 

The  viceroy  met  him  with  a  stately  train ; 
And  there,  with  archers  circled,  close  at  hand, 
A  camel  with  the  chest  was  seen  to  stand. 

The  king  grew  red,  for  thus  the  guilt  was  plain. 

"  Open  me  now,"  he  cried,  "yon  treasure-chest!" 
'T  was  done,  and  only  a  worn  shepherd's  vest 

Was  found  within ;  some  blushed  and  hung  the  head, 
Not  Dara ;  open  as  the  sky's  blue  roof 
He  stood,  and  "  O,  my  lord,  behold  the  proof 
That  I  was  worthy  of  my  trust !"  he  said. 

"  For  ruling  men,  lo!  all  the  charm  I  had; 
My  soul  in  those  coarse  vestments  ever  clad, 

Still  to  the  unstained  past  kept  true  and  leal, 
Still  on  these  plains  could  breathe  her  mountain  air, 
And  Fortune's  heaviest  gifts  serenely  bear, 

Which  bend  men  from  the  truth,  and  make  them  reel. 

"  To  govern  wisely  I  had  shown  small  skill 
Were  I  not  lord  of  simple  Dara  still ; 

That  sceptre  kept,  I  cannot  lose  my  way !" 
Strange  dew  in  royal  eyes  grew  round  and  bright 
And  thrilled  the  trembling  lids ;  before  't  was  night 

Two  added  provinces  blessed  Dara's  sway. 


TO  J.  F.  H. 

NINE  years  have  slipped  like  hour-glass  sand 

From  life's  fast-emptying  globe  away. 
Since  last,  dear  friend,  I  clasped  your  hand, 
And  lingered  on  the  impoverished  tand, 
Watching  the  steamer  down  the  bay. 


Go  3.  ff.  1b.  55 

I  held  the  keepsake  which  you  gave, 

Until  the  dim  smoke-pennon  curled 
O'er  the  vague  rim  'tween  sky  and  wave, 
And  closed  the  distance  like  a  grave, 

Leaving  me  to  the  outer  world ; 

The  old  worn  world  of  hurry  and  heat, 

The  young,  fresh  world  of  thought  and  scope ; 

While  you,  where  silent  surges  fleet 

Tow'rd  far  sky  beaches  still  and  sweet, 
Sunk  wavering  down  the  ocean-slope. 

Come  back  our  ancient  walks  to  tread, 

Old  haunts  of  lost  or  scattered  friends, 
Amid  the  Muses'  factories  red, 
Where  song,  and  smoke,  and  laughter  sped 

The  nights  to  proctor-haunted  ends. 

Our  old  familiars  are  not  laid, 

Though  snapped  our  wands  and  sunk  our  books, 

They  beckon  not  to  be  gainsaid, 
Where,  round  broad  meads  which  mowers  wade, 

Smooth  Charles  his  steel-blue  sickle  crooks ; 

Where,  as  the  cloudbergs  eastward  blow, 

From  glow  to  gloom  the  hillside  shifts 
Its  lakes  of  rye  that  surge  and  flow, 
Its  plumps  of  orchard-trees  arow, 

Its  snowy  white-weed's  summer  drifts, 

Or  let  us  to  Nantasket,  there 

To  wander  idly  as  we  list, 
Whether  on  rocky  hillocks  bare, 
Sharp  cedar-points,  like  breakers,  tear 

The  trailing  fringes  of  gray  mist, 

Or  whether,  under  skies  clear-blown, 

The  heightening  surfs  with  foamy  din, 
Their  breeze-caught  forelocks  backward  blown 
Against  old  Neptune's  yellow  zone, 

Curl  slow,  and  plunge  forever  in. 

For  years  thrice  three,  wise  Horace  said, 

A  poem  rare  let  silence  bind ; 
And  love  may  ripen  in  the  shade, 
Like  ours,  for  nine  long  seasons  laid 

In  crypts  and  arches  of  the  mind. 


56  TRosallne. 

That  right  Falernian  friendship  old 

Will  we,  to  grace  our  feast,  call  up, 
And  freely  pour  the  juice  of  gold, 
That  keeps  life's  pulses  warm  and  bold, 
Till  Death  shall  break  the  empty  cup. 


ROSALINE. 

THOU  look'd'st  on  me  all  yesternight, 
Thine  eyes  were  blue,  thy  hair  was  bright 
As  when  we  murmured  our  trothplight 
Beneath  the  thick  stars,  Rosaline ! 
Thy  hair  was  braided  on  thy  head 
As  on  the  day  we  two  were  wed, 
Mine  eyes  scarce  knew  if  thou  wert  dead — 
But  my  shrunk  heart  knew,  Rosaline  ! 

The  deathwatch  ticked  behind  the  wall, 
The  blackness  rustled  like  a  pall, 
The  moaning  wind  did  rise  and  fall 
Among  the  bleak  pines,  Rosaline! 
My  heart  beat  thickly  in  mine  ears : 
The  lids  may  shut  out  fleshly  fears, 
But  still  the  spirit  sees  and  hears, — 
Its  eyes  are  lidless,  Rosaline ! 

A  wildness  rushing  suddenly, 

A  knowing  some  ill  shape  is  nigh, 

A  wish  for  death,  a  fear  to  die — 

Is  not  this  vengeance,  Rosaline  ? 

A  loneliness  that  is  not  lone, 

A  love  quite  withered  up  and  gone, 

A  strong  soul  trampled  from  its  throne— 

What  would'st  thou  further,  Rosaline  ! 

'T  is  drear  such  moonless  nights  as  these, 
Strange  sounds  are  out  upon  the  breeze, 
And  the  leaves  shiver  in  the  trees, 
And  then  thou  comest,  Rosaline  ! 
I  seem  to  hear  the  mourners  go, 
With  long  black  garments  trailing  slow, 
And  plumes  a-nodding  to  and  fro, 
As  once  I  heard  them,  Rosaline ! 


IRosaltne. 

Thy  shroud  it  is  all  of  snowy  white, 
And,  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
Thou  standest  moveless  and  upright, 
Gazing  upon  me,  Rosaline  ! 
There  is  no  sorrow  in  thine  eyes, 
But  evermore  that  meek  surprise — 
Oh,  God  !  thy  gentle  spirit  tries 
To  deem  me  guiltless,  Rosaline  ! 


57 


"AND  THEN  THOU  COMEST,  ROSALINE." 

Above  thy  grave  the  robin  sings, 

And  swarms  of  bright  and  happy  things 

Flit  all  about  with  sunlit  wings — 

But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline  ! 

The  violets  on  the  hillock  toss, 

The  gravestone  is  o'ergrown  with  moss, 


58  IRosaline. 

For  nature  feels  not  any  loss — 
But  I  am  cheerless,  Rosaline! 

Ah !  why  wert  thou  so  lowly  bred? 
Why  was  my  pride  galled  on  to  wed 
Her  who  brought  lands  and  gold  instead 
Of  thy  heart's  treasure,  Rosaline  ! 
Why  did  I  fear  to  let  thee  stay 
To  look  on  me  and  pass  away 
Forgivingly,  as  in  its  May, 
A  broken  flower,  Rosaline! 

I  thought  not,  when  my  dagger  strook, 

Of  thy  blue  eyes;  I  could  not  brook 

The  past  all  pleading  in  one  look 

Of  utter  sorrow,  Rosaline! 

I  did  not  know  when  thou  wast  dead  : 

A  blackbird  whistling  overhead 

Thrilled  through  my  brain ;  I  would  have  fled 

But  dared  not  leave  thee,  Rosaline ! 

A  low,  low  moan,  a  light  twig  stirred 

By  the  upspringing  of  a  bird, 

A  drip  of  blood — were  all  I  heard — 

Then  deathly  stillness,  Rosaline ! 

The  sun  rolled  down,  and  very  soon, 

Like  a  great  fire,  the  awful  moon 

Rose,  stained  with  blood,  and  then  a  swoon 

Crept  chilly  o'er  me,  Rosaline ! 

The  stars  came  out ;  and,  one  by  one, 
Each  angel  from  his  silver  throne 
Looked  down  and  saw  what  I  had  done  : 
I  dared  not  hide  me,  Rosaline ! 
I  crouched ;  I  feared  thy  corpse  would  cry 
Against  me  to  God's  quiet  sky, 
I  thought  I  saw  the  blue  lips  try 
To  utter  something,  Rosaline ! 

I  waited  with  a  maddened  grin 

To  hear  that  voice  all  icy  thin 

Slide  forth  and  tell  my  deadly  sin 

To  hell  and  heaven,  Rosaline ! 

But  no  voice  came,  and  then  it  seemed 

That  if  the  very  corpse  had  screamed 

The  sound  like  sunshine  glad  had  streamed 

Through  that  dark  stillness,  Rosaline! 


IRosalfne. 


59 


Dreams  of  old  quiet  glimmered  by, 
And  faces  loved  in  infancy 
Came  and  looked  on  me  mournfully, 
Till  my  heart  melted,  Rosaline  ! 
I  saw  my  mother's  dying  bed, 
I  heard  her  bless  me,  and  I  shed 
Cool  tears — but  lo !  the  ghastly  dead 
Stared  me  to  madness,  Rosaline! 


And  then  amid  the  silent  night 
I  screamed  with  horrible  delight, 
And  in  my  brain  an  awful  light 
Did  seem  to  crackle,  Rosaline! 
It  is  my  curse!  sweet  memories 

fall 

From  me  like  snow — and  only  all 
Of  that  one  night,  like  cold 

worms  crawl 
My  doomed  heart  over,  Rosaline ! 

Thine  eyes  are  shut :  they 

never  more 

Will  leap  thy  gentle  words  before 
To  tell  the  secret  o'er  and  o'er 
Thou  could'st  not  smother, 

Rosaline! 
Thine  eyes  are  shut :  they  will 

not  shine 
With  happy  tears,  or,  through 

the  vine 
That  hid  thy  casement,  beam 

on  mine 
Sunful  with  gladness,  Rosaline  ! 


Thy  voice  I  never  more  shall 

hear, 
Which  in  old  times  did  seem 

so  dear, 

That,  ere  it  trembled  in  mine 
ear, 

My  quick  heart  heard  it,  Rosaline ! 
Would  I  might  die !     I  were  as  well, 
Ay,  better,  at  my  home  in  hell, 
To  set  for  aye  a  burning  spell 
'Twixt  me  and  memory,  Rosaline ! 


I  SCREAMED  WITH  HORRIBLE  DELIGHT. 


60  Sonnet. 

Why  wilt  thou  haunt  me  with  thine  eyes, 
Wherein  such  blessed  memories, 
Such  pitying  forgiveness  lies, 
Than  hate  more  bitter,  Rosaline! 
Woe  's  me !  I  know  that  love  so  high 
As  thine,  true  soul,  could  never  die, 
And  with  mean  clay  in  churchyard  lie- 
Would  God  it  might  be  so,  Rosaline! 


SONNET. 

IK  sortie  small  savor  creep  into  my  rhyme 
Of  the  old  poets,  if  some  words  1  use, 
Neglected  long,  which  have  the  lusty  thews 
Of  that  gold-haired  and  earnest-hearted  time, 
Whose  loving  joy  and  sorrow  all  sublime 
Have  given  our  tongue  its  starry  eminence, — 
It  is  not  pride,  God  knows,  but  reverence 
Which  hath  grown  in  me  since  my  childhood's  prime 
Wherein  I  feel  that  my  poor  lyre  is  strung 
\Vith  soul-strings  like  to  theirs,  and  that  I  have 
No  right  to  muse  their  holy  graves  among, 
If  I  can  be  a  custom-fettered  slave, 
And,  in  mine  own  true  spirit,  am  not  brave- 
To  speak  what  rusheth  upward  to  my  tongue. 


A  GLANCE  BEHIND   THE  CURTAIN. 

We  see  but  half  the  causes  of  our  deeds, 
Seeking  them  wholly  in  the  outer  life, 
And  heedless  of  the  encircling  spirit-world 
Which,  though  unseen,  is  felt,  and  sows  in  us 
All  germs  of  pure  and  world-wide  purposes. 
From  one  stage  of  our  being  to  the  next 
We  pass  unconscious  o'er  a  slender  bridge, 
The  momentary  work  of  unseen  hands, 
Which  crumbles  down  behind  us;  looking  back, 
We  see  the  other  shore,  the  gulf  between, 
And,  marvelling  how  we  won  to  where  we  stand, 
Content  ourselves  to  call  the  builder  Chance. 
We  trace  the  wisdom  to  the  apple's  fall, 
Not  to  the  birth-throes  of  a  mighty  Truth, 
Which,  for  ages  in  blank  chaos  dumb, 
Yet  yearned  to  be  incarnate,  and  had  found 


a  Glance  JBebtnO  tbe  Curtain.  61 

At  last  a  spirit  meet  to  be  the  womb 

From  which  it  might  leap  forth  to  bless  mankind— 

Not  to  the  soul  of  Newton,  ripe  with  all 

The  hoarded  thoughtfulness  of  earnest  years, 

And  waiting  but  one  ray  of  sunlight  more 

To  blossom  fully. 

But  whence  came  that  ray  ? 
We  call  our  sorrows  destiny,  but  ought 
Rather  to  name  our  high  successes  so. 
Only  the  instincts  of  great  souls  are  Fate, 
And  have  predestined  sway:  all  other  things, 
Except  by  leave  of  us,  could  never  be. 
For  destiny  is  but  the  breath  of  God 
Still  moving  in  us,  the  last  fragment  left 
Of  our  unfallen  nature,  waking  oft 
Within  our  thought  to  beckon  us  beyond 
The  narrow  circle  of  the  seen  and  known, 
And  always  tending  to  a  noble  end, 
As  all  things  must  that  overrule  the  soul. 
And  for  a  space  unseat  the  helmsman.  Will. 
The  fate  of  England  and  of  freedom  once 
Seemed  wavering  in  the  heart  of  one  plain  man; 
One  step  of  his,  and  the  great  dial-hand 
That  marks  the  destined  progress  of  the  world 
In  the  eternal  round  from  wisdom  on 
To  higher  wisdom,  had  been  made  to  pause 
A  hundred  years.      That  step  he  did  not  takr — 
He  knew  not  why,  nor  we,  but  only  God — 
And  lived  to  make  his  simple  oaken  chair 
More  terrible  and  grandly  beautiful, 
More  full  of  majesty,  than  any  throne, 
Before  or  after,  of  a  British  king. 

Upon  the  pier  stood  two  stern-visaged  men, 

Looking  to  where  a  little  craft  lay  moored, 

Swayed  by  the  lazy  current  of  the  Thames, 

Which  weltered  by  in  muddy  listlessness. 

Grave  men  they  were,  and  battlings  of  fierce  thought 

Had  trampled  out  all  softness  from  their  brows. 

And  ploughed  rough  furrows  there  before  their  time, 

For  other  crop  than  such  as  home  bred  peace 

Sows  broadcast  in  the  willing  soil  of  youth. 

Care,  not  of  self,  but  of  the  common  weal, 

Had  robbed  their  eves  of  vouth,  and  left  instead 


UPON  THE  1'IEK  STOOD  TWO  STEKN-VISAGEI)    MEN. 


B  Glance  JSebinD  tbc  Curtain.  63 

A  look  of  patient  power  and  iron  will, 

And  something  fiercer,  too,  that  gave  broad  hint 

Of  the  plain  weapons  girded  at  their  sides. 

The  younger  had  an  aspect  of  command — 

Not  such  as  trickles  down,  a  slender  stream, 

In  the  shrunk  channel  of  a  great  descent — 

But  such  as  lies  entowered  in  heart  and  head, 

And  an  arm  prompt  to  do  the  'hests  of  both. 

His  was  a  brow  where  gold  were  out  of  place, 

And  yet  it  seemed  right  worthy  of  a  crown 

(Though  he  despised  such),  were  it  only  made 

Of  iron,  or  some  serviceable  stuff 

That  would  have  matched  his  sinewy  brown  face. 

The  elder,  although  such  he  hardly  seemed 

(Care  makes  so  little  of  some  five  short  years), 

Bore  a  clear,  honest  face,  whose  rough-hewn  strength 

Was  mildened  by  the  scholar's  wiser  heart, 

To  sober  courage,  such  as  best  befits 

The  unsullied  temper  of  a  well-taught  mind, 

Yet  so  remained  that  one  could  plainly  guess 

The  hushed  volcano  smouldering  underneath. 

He  spoke :  the  other,  hearing,  kept  his  gaze 

Still  fixed,  as  on  some  problem  in  the  sky. 

O  CROMWELL,  we  are  fallen  on  evil  times ! 
There  was  a  day  when  England  had  wide  room 
For  honest  men  as  well  as  foolish  kings; 
But  now  the  uneasy  stomach  of  the  time 
Turns  squeamish  at  them  both.     Therefore  let  us 
Seek  out  that  savage  clime  where  men  as  yet 
Are  free :  there  sleeps  the  vessel  on  the  tide, 
Her  languid  canvas  drooping  for  the  wind  : 
Give  us  but  that,  and  what  need  we  fear 
This  order  of  the  council  ?     The  free  waves 
Will  not  say,  No,  to  please  a  wayward  king, 
Nor  will  the  winds  turn  traitors  at  his  beck  : 
All  things  are  fitly  cared  for,  and  the  Lord 
Will  watch  as  kindly  o'er  the  Exodus 
Of  us  his  servants  now,  as  in  old  time. 
We  have  no  cloud  or  fire,  and  haply  we 
May  not  pass  dryshod  through  the  ocean-stream  ; 
But,  saved  or  lost,  all  things  are  in  His  hand." 
So  spake  he,  and  meantime  the  other  stood 
With  wide,  gray  eyes  still  reading  the  blank  air, 
As  if  upon  the  sky's  blue  wall  he  saw 


64  B  Glance  JBcbinD  tbc  Curtain. 

Some  mystic  sentence,  written  by  a  hand 
Such  as  of  old  did  awe  the  Assyrian  king, 
Girt  with  his  satraps  in  the  blazing  feast. 

••  HAMPDEN,  a  moment  since,  my  purpose  was 
To  fly  with  thee — for  I  will  call  it  flight, 
Nor  flatter  it  with  any  smoother  name- 
But  something  in  me  bids  me  not  to  go ; 
And  I  am  one,  thou  knovvest,  who,  unscared 
By  what  the  weak  deem  omens,  yet  give  lu-rd 
And  reverence  due  to  whatsoe'er  my  soul 
Whispers  of  warning  to  the  inner  ear. 
Moreover,  as  I  know  that  God  brings  round 
His  purposes  in  ways  undreamed  by  us, 
And  makes  the  wicked  but  his  instruments 
To  hasten  on  their  swift  and  sudden  fall, 
I  see  the  beauty  of  his  providence 
In  the  King's  order;  blind,  he  will  not  let 
His  doom  part  from  him,  but  must  bid  it  stay, 
As  't  were  a  cricket,  whose  enlivening  chirp 
He  loved  to  hear  beneath  his  very  breath. 
Why  should  we  fly?     Nay,  why  not  rather  stay 
And  rear  again  our  Zion's  crumbled  walls, 
Not  as  of  old  the  walls  of  Thebes  were  built 
By  minstrel  twanging,  but,  if  need  should  be, 
With  the  more  potent  music  of  our  swords  ? 
Think'st  thou  that  score  of  men  beyond  the  sea 
Claim  more  God's  care  than  all  of  England  here  ? 
No :  when  He  moves  His  arm,  it  is  to  aid 
Whole  peoples,  heedless  if  a  few  be  crushed, 
As  some  are  ever  when  the  destiny 
( )f  man  takes  one  stride  onward  nearer  home. 
Believe  it,  't  is  the  mass  of  men  He  loves, 
And  where  there  is  most  sorrow  and  most  want, 
Where  the  high  heart  of  man  is  trodden  down 
The  most,  'tis  not  because  He  hides  His  face 
From  them  in  wrath,  as  purblind  teachers  prate. 
Not  so:  there  most  is  He,  for  there  is  He 
Most  needed.     Men  who  seek  for  Fate  abroad 
Are  not  so  near  His  heart  as  they  who  dare 
Frankly  to  face  her  where  she  faces  them, 
On  their  own  threshold,  where  their  souls  an-  strong 
To  grapple  with  and  throw  her,  as  I  once, 
Being  ytt  a  boy,  did  throw  this  puny  king. 
Who  now  has  grown  so  dotard  as  to  deem 


B  Glance  36ebinD  tbe  Curtain.  65 

That  he  can  wrestle  with  an  angry  realm 
And  throw  the  brawned  Antaeus  of  men's  rights. 
No,  Hampden ,  they  have  half-way  conquered  Fate 
Who  go  half-way  to  meet  her — as  will  I. 
Freedom  has  yet  a  work  for  me  to  do ; 
So  speaks  that  inward  voice  which  never  yet 
Spake  falsely,  when  it  urged  the  spirit  on 
To  noble  deeds  for  country  and  mankind. 
And  for  success,  I  ask  no  more  than  this, — 
To  bear  unflinching  witness  to  the  truth. 
All  true,  whole  men  succeed  ;  for  what  is  worth 
Success's  name,  unless  it  be  the  thought, 
The  inward  surety,  to  have  carried  out 
A  noble  purpose  to  a  noble  end, 
Although  it  be  the  gallows  or  the  block  ? 
'Tis  only  Falsehood  that  doth  ever  need 
These  outward  signs  of  gain  to  bolster  her. 
Be  it  we  prove  the  weaker  with  our  sword?, 
Truth  only  needs  to  be  for  once  spoke  out. 
And  there's  such  music  in  her,  such  strange  rhythm, 
As  make  men's  memories  her  joyous  slaves, 
And  cling  around  the  soul,  as  the  sky  clings 
Round  the  mute  Earth,  forever  beautiful, 
And,  if  o'erclouded,  only  to  burst  forth 
More  all-embracingly  divine  and  clear : 
Get  but  the  truth  once  uttered,  and  't  is  like 
A  star  new  born,  that  drops  into  its  place, 
And  which,  once  circling  in  its  placid  round, 
Not  all  the  tumult  of  the  Earth  can  shake. 

What  should  we  do  in  that  small  colony 

Of  pinched  fanatics,  who  would  rather  choose 

Freedom  to  clip  an  inch  more  from  their  hair 

Than  the  great  chance  of  setting  England  free  ? 

Not  there,  amid  the  stormy  wilderness 

Should  we  learn  wisdom ;  or,  if  learned,  what  room 

To  put  it  into  act — else  worse  than  naught  ? 

We  learn  our  souls  more,  tossing  for  an  hour 

Upon  this  huge  and  ever  vexed  sea 

Of  human  thought,  where  kingdoms  go  to  wreck 

Like  fragile  bubbles  yonder  in  the  stream, 

Than  in  a  cycle  of  New  England  sloth, 

Broke  only  by  some  petty  Indian  war, 

Or  quarrel  for  a  letter,  more  or  less, 

In  some  hard  word,  which,  spelt  in  either  way. 


66  a  <3lance  JSebinD  tbe  Curtain. 

Not  their  most  learned  clerks  can  understand. 

New  times  demand  new  measures  and  new  men ; 

The  world  advances,  and  in  time  outgrows 

The  laws  that  in  our  father's  day  were  best  ; 

And,  doubtless,  after  us,  some  purer  scheme 

Will  be  shaped  out  by  wiser  men  than  we, 

Made  wiser  by  the  steady  growth  of  truth. 

We  cannot  bring  Utopia  at  once  ; 

But  better  almost  be  at  work  in  sin 

Than  in  a  brute  inaction  browse  and  sleep. 

No  man  is  born  into  the  world  whose  work 

Is  not  born  with  him ;  there  is  always  work, 

And  tools  to  work  withal,  for  those  who  will  ; 

And  blessed  are  the  horny  hands  of  toil  ! 

The  busy  world  shoves  angrily  aside 

The  man  who  stands  with  arms  a-kimbo  set, 

Until  occasion  tells  him  what  to  do ; 

And  he  who  waits  to  have  his  task  marked  out, 

Shall  die  and  leave  his  errand  unfulfilled. 

Our  time  is  one  that  calls  for  earnest  deeds. 

Reason  and  Government,  like  two  broad  seas, 

Yearn  for  each  other  with  outstretched  arms 

Across  this  narrow  isthmus  of  the  throne, 

And  roll  their  white  surf  higher  every  day. 

One  age  moves  onward,  and  the  next  builds  up 

Cities  and  gorgeous  palaces,  where  stood 

The  rude  log  huts  of  those  who  tamed  the  wild, 

Rearing  from  out  the  forests  they  had  felled 

The  goodly  framework  of  a  fairer  state : 

The  builder's  trowel  and  the  settler's  axe 

Are  seldom  wielded  by  the  self-same  hand ; 

Ours  is  the  harder  task,  yet  not  the  less 

Shall  we  receive  the  blessing  for  our  toil 

From  the  choice  spirits  of  the  after-time. 

The  fields  lie  wide  before  us,  where  to  reap 

The  easy  harvest  of  a  deathless  name, 

Though  with  no  better  sickles  than  our  swords. 

My  soul  is  not  a  palace  of  the  past. 

Where  outworn  creeds,  like  Rome's  gray  senate  quake, 

Hearing  afar  the  Vandal's  trumpet  hoarse, 

That  shakes  old  systems  with  a  thunder-fit. 

The  time  is  ripe,  and  rotten-ripe,  for  change; 

Then  let  it  come :  I  have  no  dread  of  what 

Is  called  for  by  the  instinct  of  mankind. 

Nor  think  I  that  God's  world  will  fall  apart 


B  Glance  JBebinfc  tbe  Curtain.  67 

Because  we  tear  a  parchment  more  or  less. 
Truth  is  eternal,  but  her  effluence. 
With  endless  change,  is  fitted  to  the  hour ; 
Her  mirror  is  turned  forward  to  reflect 
The  promise  of  the  future,  not  the  past. 
He  who  would  win  the  name  of  truly  great 
Must  understand  his  own  age  and  the  next, 
And  make  the  present  ready  to  fulfill 
Its  prophecy,  and  with  the  future  merge 
Gently  and  peacefully,  as  wave  with  wave. 
The  future  works  out  great  men's  destinies ; 
The  present  is  enough  for  common  souls, 
Who,  never  looking  forward,  are  indeed 
Mere  clay  wherein  the  footprints  of  their  age 
Are  petrified  forever :     Better  those 
Who  lead  the  blind  old  giant  by  the  hand 
From  out  the  pathless  desert  where  he  gropes, 
And  set  him  onward  in  his  darksome  way. 
I  do  not  fear  to  follow  out  the  truth, 
Albeit  along  the  precipice's  edge. 
Let  us  speak  plain :  there  is  more  force  in  names 
Than  most  men  dream  of;  and  a  lie  may  keep 
Its  throne  a  whole  age  longer,  if  it  skulk 
Behind  the  shield  of  some  fair-seeming  name. 
Let  us  call  tyrants  tyrants,  and  maintain 
That  only  freedom  comes  by  grace  of  God. 
And  all  that  comes  not  by  his  grace  must  fall ; 
For  men  in  earnest  have  no  time  to  waste 
In  patching  fig-leaves  for  the  naked  truth. 

'  I  will  have  one  more  grapple  with  the  man 
Charles  Stuart :  whom  the  boy  o'ercame, 
The  man  stands  not  in  awe  of.      I  perchance 
Am  one  raised  up  by  the  Almighty  arm 
To  witness  some  great  truth  to  all  the  world. 
Souls  destined  to  o'erleap  the  vulgar  lot, 
And  mould  the  world  unto  the  scheme  of  God, 
Have  a  foreconsciousness  of  their  high  doom, 
As  men  are  known  to  shiver  at  the  heart, 
When  the  cold  shadow  of  some  coming  ill 
Creeps  slowly  o'er  their  spirit  unawares: 
Hath  Good  less  power  of  prophecy  than  ill  ? 
How  else  could  men  whom  God  hath  called  to  sway 
Earth's  rudder,  and  to  steer  the  bark  of  Truth 
Beating  against  the  wind  toward  her  port, 


68  B  Glance  JSebind  tbc  Curtain. 

Bear  all  the  mean  and  buzzing  grievances, 

The  petty  martyrdoms  wherewith  Sin  strives 

To  weary  out  the  tethered  hope  of  Faith, 

The  sneers,  the  unrecognizing  look  of  friends. 

Who  worship  the  dead  corpse  of  old  king  Custom, 

Where  it  doth  lie  in  state  within  the  Church, 

Striving  to  cover  up  the  mighty  ocean 

With  a  man's  palm,  and  make  even  the  truth 

Lie  for  them,  holding  up  the  glass  reversed, 

To  make  the  hope  of  man  seem  further  off  ? 

My  (iod!  when  I  read  o'er  the  bitter  lives 

Of  men  whose  eager  hearts  were  quite  too  great 

To  beat  beneath  the  cramped  mode  of  the  clay. 

And  see  them  mocked  at  by  the  world  they  love, 

Haggling  with  prejudice  for  pennyworths 

Of  that  reform  which  their  hard  toil  will  make 

The  common  birthright  of  the  age  to  come — 

When  I  see  this,  spite  of  my  faith  in  God, 

I  marvel  how  their  hearts  bear  up  so  long  ; 

Nor  could  they,  but  from  this  same  prophecy, 

This  inward  feeling  of  the  glorious  end. 

"  Deem  me  not  fond  ;  but  in  my  warmer  youth, 
Ere  my  heart's  bloom  was  soiled  and  brushed  away, 
I  had  great  dreams  of  mighty  things  to  come  ; 
Of  conquest  ;  whether  by  the  sword  or  pen, 
I  knew  not  ;  but  some  conquest  1  would  have. 
Or  else  swift  death  :  now,  wiser  grown  in  years, 
I  find  youth's  dreams  are  but  the  flutterings 
Of  those  strong  wings  whereon  the  soul  shall  soar 
In  after  time  to  win  a  starry  throne  ; 
And  therefore  cherish  them,  for  they  were  lots 
Which  I,  a  boy,  cast  in  the  helm  of  Fate. 
Nor  will  I  draw  them,  since  a  man's  right  hand. 
A  right  hand  guided  by  an  earnest  soul, 
With  a  true  instinct,  takes  the  golden  prize 
From  out  a  thousand  blanks.      What  men  call  luck. 
Is  the  prerogative  of  valiant  souls, 
The  fealty  life  pays  its  rightful  kings. 
The  helm  is  shaking  now,  and  I  will  stay 
To  pluck  my  lot  forth  ;  it  were  sin  to  flee  ' 
So  they  two  turned  together  ;  one  to  die 
Fighting  for  freedom  on  the  bloody  field  , 
The  other,  far  more  happy,  to  become 
A  name  earth  wears  forever  next  her  heart  ; 


Song,  69 

One  of  the  few  that  have  a  right  to  rank 
With  the  true  Makers;  for  his  spirit  wrought 
( )rder  from  Chaos ;  proved  that  right  divine 
Dwelt  only  in  the  excellence  of  Truth ; 
And  far  within  old  Darkness'  hostile  lines 
Advanced  and  pitched  the  shining  tents  of  Light. 
Nor  shall  the  grateful  Muse  forget  to  tell, 
That — not  the  least  among  his  many  claims 
To  deathless  honor — he  was  Milton's  friend, 
A  man  not  second  among  those  who  lived 
To  show  us  that  the  poet's  lyre  demands 
An  arm  of  tougher  sinew  than  the  sword. 


VIOLET  !  sweet  Violet ! 
Thine  eyes  are  full  of  tears ; 
Are  they  wet 
Even  yet 

With  the  thought  of  other  years, 
Or  with  gladness  are  they  full, 
For  the  night  so  beautiful, 
And  longing  for  those  far-off  spheres? 

Loved  one  of  my  youth  thou  wast, 
Of  my  merry  youth, 
And  1  see, 
Tearfully, 

All  the  fair  and  sunny  past, 
All  its  openness  and  truth, 
Ever  fresh  and  green  in  thee 
As  the  moss  is  in  the  sea. 

Thy  little  heart,  that  hath  with  love 


70  Cbe  fllboon. 

Grown  colored  like  the  sky  above, 
On  which  thou  lookest  ever, — 
Can  it  know 
All  the  woe 

Of  hope  for  what  returneth  never, 
All  the  sorrow  and  the  longing 
To  these  hearts  of  ours  belonging ! 

Out  on  it !  no  foolish  pining 

For  the  sky 

Dims  thine  eye, 

Or  for  the  stars  so  calmly  shining ; 
Like  thee  let  this  soul  of  mine 
Take  hue  from  that  wherefor  I  long, 
Self-stayed  and  high,  serene  and  strong, 
Not  satisfied  with  hoping — but  divine. 

Violet !  dear  Violet ! 

Thy  blue  eyes  are  only  wet 
With  joy  and  love  of  him  who  sent  thee, 
And  for  the  fulfilling  sense 
Of  that  glad  obedience 
Which  made  thee  all  which  Nature  meant  thee ! 


THE  MOON. 

MY  soul  was  like  the  sea 
Before  the  moon  was  made ; 
Moaning  in  vague  immensity, 
Of  its  own  strength  afraid, 
Unrestful  and  unstaid. 

Through  every  rift  it  foamed  in  vain 

About  its  earthly  prison. 
Seeking  some  unknown  thing  in  pain, 
And  sinking  restless  back  again, 

For  yet  no  moon  had  risen : 
Its  only  voice  a  vast  dumb  moan 
Of  utterless  anguish  speaking, 
It  lay  unhopefully  alone 
And  lived  but  in  an  aimless  seeking. 

So  was  my  soul :  but  when  't  was  full 

Of  unrest  to  o'erloading, 
A  voice  of  something  beautiful 


ffatberlanfc.  71 

Whispered  a  dim  foreboding, 
And  yet  so  soft,  so  sweet,  so  low, 
It  had  not  more  of  joy  than  woe : 
And,  as  the  sea  doth  oft  lie  still, 

Making  his  waters  meet, 
As  if  by  an  unconscious  will, 

For  the  moon's  silver  feet, 
So  lay  my  soul  within  mine  eyes 
When  thou  its  guardian  moon  didst  rise. 

And  now,  howe'er  its  waves  above 

May  toss  and  seem  uneaseful, 
One  strong,  eternal  law  of  love 

With  guidance  sure  and  peaceful, 
As  calm  and  natural  as  breath 
Moves  its  great  deeps  through  Life  and  Death. 


THE     FATHERLAND. 

WHERE  is  the  true  man's  fatherland? 

Is  it  where  he  by  chance  is  born? 

Doth  not  the  free-winged  spirit  scorn 
In  such  scant  borders  to  be  spanned? 

Oh  yes !  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free  . 

Is  it  alone  where  freedom  is, 

Where  God  is  God  and  man  is  man? 

Doth  he  not  claim  a  broader  span 
For  the  soul's  love  of  home  than  this? 

Oh  yes  !  his  fatherland  must  be 

As  the  blue  heaven  wide  and  free ! 


72  a  parable. 

Where'er  a  human  heart  doth  wear 
Joy's  myrtle  wreath,  or  sorrow's  gyves, 
Where'er  a  human  spirit  strives 

After  a  heart  more  pure  and  fair, 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand  ! 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 

Where'er  a  single  slave  doth  pine, 

Where'er  one  man  may  help  another — 
Thank  God  for  such  a  birthright,  brother! 

That  spot  of  earth  is  thine  and  mine ; 

There  is  the  true  man's  birthplace  grand  ! 
His  is  a  world-wide  fatherland  ! 


A   PARABLE. 

WORN  and  footsore  was  the  Prophet 

When  he  gained  the  holy  hill; 
God  has  left  the  earth,"  he  murmured, 
"  Here  his  presence  lingers  still. 

God  of  all  the  olden  prophets. 

Wilt  thou  speak  with  men  no  more  ? 

Have  I  not  as  truly  served  thee 
As  thy  chosen  ones  of  yore  ? 

Hear  me,  guider  of  my  fathers, 
Lo,  a  humble  heart  is  mine ; 

By  thy  mercy  I  beseech  thee, 
Grant  thy  servant  but  a  sign !  " 

Bowing  then  his  head,  he  listened 
For  an  answer  to  his  prayer ; 

Xo  loud  burst  of  thunder  followed, 
Not  a  murmur  stirred  the  air : 

But  the  tuft  of  moss  before  him 
Opened  while  he  waited  yet, 

And  from  out  the  rock's  hard  bosom 
Sprang  a  tender  violet. 

God!  I  thank  thee,"  said  the  Prophet, 
"  Hard  of  heart  and  blind  was  I, 
Looking  to  the  holy  mountain 
For  the  gift  of  prophecy. 


UAX  TO  ME  MY  LITTLE  DAUGHTER,   THE  BELOVED  OF  MY  HEART. 


74  ©n  tbe  Deatb  of  a  jfrfenD's   Cbtlfc. 

' '  Still  thou  speakest  with  thy  children 

Freely  as  in  Eld  sublime, 
Humbleness  and  love  and  patience 
Still  give  empire  over  Time. 

"  Had  "I  trusted  in  my  nature, 

And  had  faith  in  lowly  things, 
Thou  thyself  wouldst  then  have  sought  me, 
And  set  free  my  spirit's  wings. 

"  But  I  looked  for  signs  and  wonders 

That  o'er  men  should  give  me  sway, 
Thirsting  to  be  more  than  mortal, 
I  was  even  less  than  clay. 

"  Ere  I  entered  on  my  journey, 
As  I  girt  my  loins  to  start, 
Ran  to  me  my  little  daughter, 
The  beloved  of  my  heart ; 

"  In  her  hand  she  held  a  flower, 
Like  to  this  as  like  may  be. 
Which  beside  my  very  threshold 

She  had  plucked  and  brought  to  me." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  FRIEND'S  CHILD. 

DEATH  never  came  so  nigh  to  me  before, 

Nor  showed  me  his  mild  face :  Oft  I  had  mused 

Of  calm  and  peace  and  deep  forgetfulness, 

Of  folded  hands,  closed  eyes,  and  heart  at  rest, 

And  slumber  sound  beneath  a  flowery  turf, 

Of  faults  forgotten,  and  an  inner  place 

Kept  sacred  for  us  in  the  heart  of  friends ; 

But  these  were  idle  fancies  satisfied 

With  the  mere  husk  of  this  great  Mystery, 

And  dwelling  in  the  outward  shows  of  things. 

Heaven  is  not  mounted  to  on  wings  of  dreams, 

Nor  doth  the  unthankful  happiness  of  youth 

Aim  thitherward,  but  floats  from  bloom  to  bloom. 

With  earth's  warm  patch  of  sunshine  well  content: 

'T  is  sorrow  builds  the  shining  ladder  up 

Whose  golden  rounds  are  our  calamities, 

Whereupon  our  firm  feet  planting,  nearer  God 

The  spirit  climbs,  and  hath  its  eyes  unsealed. 


On  tbe  Deatb  of  a  tfrien&'s  Cbilfc.  75 

True  is  it  that  Death's  face  seems  stern  and  cold, 

When  he  is  sent  to  summon  those  we  love, 

But  all  God's  angels  come  to  us  disguised; 

Sorrow  and  sickness,  poverty  and  death, 

One  after  other  lift  their  frowning  masks, 

And  we  behold  the  seraph's  face  beneath, 

All  radiant  with  the  glory  and  the  calm 

Of  having  looked  upon  the  front  of  God. 

With  every  anguish  of  our  earthly  part 

The  spirit's  sight  grows  clearer;  this  was  meant 

When  Jesus  touched  the  blind  man's  lids  with  clay. 

Life  is  the  jailer,  Death  the  angel  sent 

To  draw  the  unwilling  bolts  and  set  us  free. 

He  flings  not  ope  the  ivory  gate  of  Rest — 

Only  the  fallen  spirit  knocks  at  that — 

But  to  benigner  regions  beckons  us, 

To  destinies  of  more  rewarded  toil. 

In  the  hushed  chamber,  sitting  by  the  dead, 

It  grates  on  us  to  hear  the  flood  of  life 

Whirl  rustling  onward,  senseless  of  our  loss. 

The  bee  hums  on ;  around  the  blossomed  vine 

Whirs  the  light  humming-bird ;  the  cricket  chirps  ; 

The  locust's  shrill  alarum  stings  the  ear; 

Hard  by,  the  cock  shouts  lustily;  from  farm  to  farm, 

His  cheery  brothers,  telling  of  the  sun, 

Answer,  till  far  away  the  joyance  dies; 

We  never  knew  before  how  God  had  filled 

The  summer  air  with  happy  living  sounds; 

All  round  us  seems  an  overplus  of  life, 

And  yet  the  one  dear  heart  lies  cold  and  still. 

It  is  most  strange,  when  the  great  Miracle 

Hath  for  our  sakes  been  done ;  when  we  have  had 

Our  inwardest  experience  of  God, 

When  with  his  presence  still  the  room  expands, 

And  is  awed  after  him,  that  naught  is  changed, 

That  Nature's  face  looks  unacknowledging, 

And  the  mad  world  still  dances  heedless  on 

After  its  butterflies,  and  gives  no  sign. 

'T  is  hard  at  first  to  see  it  all  aright; 

In  vain  Faith  blows  her  trump  to  summon  back 

Her  scattered  troop ;  yet  through  the  clouded  glass 

Of  our  own  bitter  tears,  we  learn  to  look 

Undazzled  on  the  kindness  of  God's  face ; 

Earth  is  too  dark,  and  Heaven  alone  shines  through. 


76  ©n  tbe  £>catb  of  a  tfncnfr'i? 


It  is  no  little  thing,  when  a  fresli  soul 

And  a  fresh  heart,  with  their  unmeasured  scope 

For  good,  not  gravitating  earthward  yet, 

But  circling  in  diviner  periods, 

Are  sent  into  the  world,  —  no  little  thing, 

When  this  unbounded  possibility 

Into  the  outer  silence  is  withdrawn. 

Ay,  in  this  world,  where  every  guiding  thread 

Ends  suddenly  in  the  one  sure  centre,  death, 

The  visionary  hand  of  might-have-been 

Alone  can  fill  Desire's  cup  to  the  brim  ' 


"IN  TIIK  HUSHED  CHAMBER,   SITTING    BY  THE    DEAL). 

How  changed,  dear  friend,  are  thy  part  and  thy  child's 

He  bends  above  t/iy  cradle  now,  or  holds 

His  warning  finger  out  to  be  thy  guide; 

Thou  art  the  nursling  now ;  he  watches  thee 

Slow  learning,  one  by  one,  the  secret  things 

Which  are  to  him  used  sights  of  every  day ; 


Bn  Kncidcnt  in  a  IRatlroaD  Car.  77 

He  smiles  to  see  thy  wondering  glances  con 
The  grass  and  pebbles  of  the  spirit  world, 
To  thee  miraculous ;  and  he  will  teach 
Thy  knees  their  due  observances  of  prayer. 

Children  are  God's  apostles,  day  by  day, 

Sent  forth  to  preach  of  love,  and  hope,  and  peace ; 

Xor  hath  thy  babe  his  mission  left  undone. 

To  me,  at  least,  his  going  hence  hath  given 

Serener  thoughts  and  nearer  to  the  skies, 

And  opened  a  new  fountain  in  my  heart 

For  thee,  my  friend,  and  all:  and  oh,  if  Death 

More  near  approaches,  meditates,  and  clasps 

Even  now  some  dearer,  more  reluctant  hand, 

God,  strengthen  thou  my  faith,  that  I  may  see 

That  't  is  thine  angel  who,  with  loving  haste, 

Unto  the  service  of  the  inner  shrine 

Doth  waken  thy  beloved  with  a  kiss! 

CAMBRIDGE,  MASS.  Sept.  3,  1844. 


AN   INCIDENT   IN   A   RAILROAD   CAR. 

HE  spoke  of  Burns :  men  rude  and  rough 
Pressed  round  to  hear  the  praise  of  one 

Whose  breast  was  made  of  manly,  simple  stuff, 
As  homespun  as  their  own. 

And,  when  he  read,  they  forward  leaned 
Drinking,  with  thirsty  hearts  and  ears. 

His  brook-like  songs  whom  glory  never  weaned 
From  humble  smiles  and  tears. 

Slowly  there  grew  a  tender  awe, 
Sunlike  o'er  faces  brown  and  hard, 

As  if  in  him  who  read  they  felt  and  saw 
Some  presence  of  the  bard. 

It  was  a  sight  for  sin  and  wrong, 

And  slavish  tyranny  to  see, 
A  sight  to  make  our  faith  more  pure  and  strong 

In  high  Humanity. 

I  thought,  these  men  will  carry  hence, 
Promptings  their  former  life  above. 


Bn  IFnct&ent  in  a  IRailroaD  Car. 


"HE  SPOKE  OF  BURNS:  MKN  RUDE  AND  ROUGH  PRESSED 
ROUND  TO  HEAR  THE  PRAISE." 

And  something  of  a  finer  reverence 
For  beauty,  truth,  and  love. 

God  scatters  love  on  every  side, 

Freely  among  his  children  all, 
And  always  hearts  are  lying  open  wide 

Wherein  some  grains  may  fall. 

There  is  no  wind  but  soweth  seeds 

Of  a  more  true  and  open  life, 
Which  burst  unlocked  for  into  high-souled  deeds 

With  wayside  beauty  rife. 

We  find  within  these  souls  of  ours 
Some  wild  germs  of  a  higher  birth, 


Bn  IfnciOent  In  a  TRailroafc  Gar.  79 

Which  in  the  poet's  tropic  heart  bears  flowers 
Whose  fragrance  fills  the  earth. 

Within  the  hearts  of  all  men  lie 

These  promises  of  wider  bliss, 
Which  blossom  into  hopes  that  cannot  die, 

In  sunny  hours  like  this. 

All  that  hath  been  majestical 

In  life  or  death  since  time  began. 
Is  native  in  the  simple  heart  of  all, 

The  angel  heart  of  man. 

And  thus  among  the  untaught  poor 

Great  deeds  and  feelings  find  a  home 
That  cast  in  shadow  all  the  golden  lore 

Of  classic  Greece  or  Rome. 

Oh  !  mighty  brother-soul  of  man, 

Where'er  thou  art,  in  low  or  high, 
Thy  skyey  arches  with  exulting  span 

O'er-roof  infinity. 

All  thoughts  that  mould  the  age  begin 

Deep  down  within  the  primitive  soul, 
And,  from  the  many,  slowly  upward  win 

To  One  who  grasps  the  whole. 

In  his  broad  breast,  the  feeling  deep 

That  struggled  on  the  many's  tongue, 
Swells  to  a  tide  of  Thought  whose  surges  leap 

O'er  the  weak  thrones  of  wrong. 

All  thought  begins  in  feeling — wide 

In  the  great  mass  its  base  is  hid, 
And,  narrowing  up  to  thought,  stands  glorified, 

A  moveless  pyramid. 

Nor  is  he  far  astray  who  deems 

That  every  hope  which  rises  and  grows  broad 
In  the  World's  heart,  by  ordered  impulse  streams 

From  the  great  heart  of  God. 

God  wills,  man  hopes  ;  in  common  souls 
Hope  is  but  vague  and  undefined, 


8o  (Tbe  Jfirc  at  Ibamburci. 

Till  from  the  poet's  tongue  the  message  rolls 
A  blessing  to  his  kind. 

Never  did  poesy  appear 

So  full  of  Heav'n  to  me  as  \vnen 
I  saw  how  it  would  pierce  through  pride  and  f.-ar. 

To  the  lives  of  coarsest  men. 

It  may  be  glorious  to  write 

Thoughts  that  shall  glad  the  two  or  three 
High  souls,  like  those  far  stars  that  come  in  sight 

Once  in  a  century. 

But  better  far  it  is  to  speak 

One  simple  word  which  now  and  then 

Shall  waken  their  free  nature  in  the  weak 
And  friendless  sons  of  men ; 

To  write  some  earnest  verse  or  line 
Which,  seeking  not  the  praise  of  Art, 

Shall  make  a  clearer  faith  and  manhood  shine 
In  the  uncultured  heart. 

He  who  doth  this,  in  verse  or  prose, 

May  be  forgotten  in  his  day, 
But  surely  shall  be  crowned  at  last  with  those 

Who  live  and  speak  for  aye. 

BOSTON,  April,  1842. 


AN   INCIDENT  OF  THE   FIRE   AT   HAMBURU 

The  tower  of   old   Saint   Nicholas   soared   upward   to 

the  skies, 
Like  some  huge  piece  of  nature's  make,   the  growth 

of  centuries ; 
You   could   not  deem   its  crowding  spires   a  work  of 

human  art, 
They  seemed  to  struggle  lightward  from  a  sturdy  living 

heart. 

Not  Nature's  self   more   freely  speaks  in  crystal  or  in 

oak 
Than,  through  the  pious  builder's  hand,  in  that  gray 

pile  she  spoke ; 


Cbc  ffu'c  at  tbamburg.  81 


And  as  from  acorn  springs  the  oak,   so,    freely  and 

alone, 
Sprang  from   his   heart    this    hymn  to    God,    sung  in 

obedient  stone. 

It  seemed  a  wondrous  freak  of  chance,  so  perfect,  yet 

so  rough, 

A  whim  of  Nature  crystallized  slowly  in  granite  tough  ; 
The  thick   spires  yearned   towards  the  sky  in  quaint 

harmonious  lines, 
And  in  broad  sunlight  basked  and  slept,  like  a  grove 

of  blasted  pines. 

Never  did  rock  or  stream  or  tree  lay  claim  with  better 

right 
To   all   the  adorning   sympathies    of    shadow  and    of 

light; 

And,  in  that  forest  petrified,  as  forester  there  dwells 
Stout  Herman,  the  old  sacristan,    sole  lord  of    all  its 

bells. 

Surge  leaping  after  surge,  the  fire  roared  onward,  red 

as  blood, 
Till  half  of  Hamburg  lay  engulfed  beneath  the  eddying 

flood  ; 
For  miles  away,  the  fiery  spray  poured  down  its  deadly 

rain, 
And  back  and  forth  the  billows  sucked,  and  paused, 

and  burst  again. 

From  square  to  square,  with  tiger  leaps,  rushed  on  the 

lustful  fire  ; 
The  air  to  leeward  shuddered   with   the  gasps  of  its 

desire  ; 
And    church    and    palace,     which    even    now    stood 

whelmed  but  to  the  knee, 
Lift  their  black    roofs  like    breakers    lone    amid   the 

whirling  sea. 

I'p   in   his  tower  old    Herman   sat   and  watched  with 

quiet  look  ; 
His    soul    had    trusted    God    too    long   to    be    at    last 

forsook  : 
1  le  could   not  fear,  for  surely  God  a  pathway  would 

unfold 
Through  this  red  sea,  for  faithful  hearts,  as  once  he 

did  of  old. 


'  UP  IN    HI8    TOWER  OLD  HERMAN  SAT  AND  WATCHED 
WITH  QUIET  LOOK." 


Sonnets.  83 

But  scarcely  call  he  cross  himself,    or  on  his    good 

saint  call, 
Before  the  sacrilegious  flood  o'erleaped  the  churchyard 

wail, 
And,    ere  a  pater    half    was    said,    'mid  smoke    and 

crackling  glare, 
His  island  tower  scarce  juts  its  head  above  the  wide 

despair. 

Upon   the   peril's    desperate   peak  his  heart  stood  up 

sublime ; 
His  first  thought  was  for  God  above,  his  next   was  for 

his  chime ; 
"  Sing  now,  and  make  your  voices   heard   in   hymns  of 

praise,"  cried  he, 

"  As  did  the  Israelites  of  old,  safe-walking  through  the 
sea! 

"  Through  this  red  sea  our  God  hath  made  our  pathway 

safe  to  shore  ; 
Our  promised  land  stands  full  in  sight;  shout  now  as 

ne'er  before." 
And,  as  the  tower  came  crashing  down,  the  bells,  in 

clear  accord. 
Pealed  forth  the  grand  olu  German  hymn — "  All  good 

souls  praist  the  Lord  !  " 


SONNETS. 

OX    READING     WORDSWORTH'S    SONNETS  IN  DEFENCE  OF 

CAPITAL    PUNISHMENT. 

I. 

As  the  broad  ocean  endlessly  upheaveth, 
With  the  majestic  beating  of  his  heart, 
The  mighty  tides,  whereof  its  rightful  part 

Each  sea-wide  bay  and  little  weed  receiveth — 

So,  through  his  soul  who  earnestly  believeth 
Life  from  the  universal  Heart  doth  flow, 
Whereby  some  conquest  of  the  eternal  woe 

By  instinct  of  God's  nature  he  achieveth  : 

A  fuller  pulse  of  this  all-powerful  Beauty 
Into  the  poet's  gulf-like  heart  doth  tide, 

And  he  more  keenly  feels  the  glorious  duty 
Of  serving  Truth  despised  and  crucified — 


84  Sonnets. 

Happy,  unknowing  sect  or  creed,  to  rest 
And  feel  God  flow  forever  through  his  breast. 


Once  hardly  in  a  cycle  blossometh 

A  flower-like  soul  ripe  with  the  seeds  of  song, 
A  spirit  foreordained  to  cope  with  wrong, 

Whose  divine  thoughts  are  natural  as  breath, 

Who  the  old  Darkness  thickly  scattereth 

With  starry  words  that  shoot  prevailing  light 
Into  the  deeps,  and  wither  with  the  blight 

Of  serene  Truth  the  coward  heart  of  Death  : 

Woe  if  such  spirit  thwart  its  errand  high, 
And  mock  with  lies  the  longing  soul  of  man  ! 

Yet  one  age  longer  must  true  Culture  lie, 
Soothing  her  bitter  fetters  as  she  can, 

Until  new  messages  of  love  outstart 

At  the  next  beating  of  the  infinite  Heart. 

in. 
The  love  of  al'  things  springs  from  love  of  one; 

Wider  the  soul's  horizon  hourly  grows, 

And  over  it  with  fuller  glory  flows 
The  sky-like  spirit  of  God :  a  hope  begun 
In  doubt  and  darkness,  'neath  a  fairer  sun 

Cometh  to  fruitage,  if  it  be  of  Truth  ; 

And  to  the  law  of  meekness,  faith  and  ruth, 
By  inward  sympathy  shall  all  be  won  : 
This  thou  shouldst  know,  who  from  the  painted  feature 

Of  shifting  Fashion,  couldst  thy  brethren  turn 
Unto  the  love  of  ever  youthful  nature, 

And  of  a  beauty  fadeless  and  eterne ; 
And  always  't  is  the  saddest  sight  to  see 
An  old  man  faithless  in  Humanity. 

IV. 

A  poet  cannot  strive  for  despotism ; 

His  harp  falls  shattered ;  for  it  still  must  be 

The  instinct  of  great  spirits  to  be  free, 
And  the  sworn  foes  of  cunning  barbarism. 
He  who  has  deepest  searched  the  wide  abysm 

Of  that  life-giving  Soul  which  men  call  fate, 

Knows  that  to  put  more  faith  in  lies  and  hate 
Than  truth  and  love,  is  the  true  atheism : 
Upward  the  soul  forever  turns  her  eyes ; 

The  next  hour  always  shames  the  hour  before ; 


Sonnete, 

One  beauty  at  its  highest  prophesies 

That  by  whose  side  it  shall  seem  mean  and  poor ; 
No  Godlike  thing  knows  aught  of  less  and  less, 
But  widens  to  the  boundless  Perfectness. 


Therefore  think  not  the  Past  is  wise  alone. 
F'or  Yesterday  knows  nothing  of  the  Best, 
And  thou  shalt  love  it  only  as  the  nest 

Whence  glory-winged  things  to  Heaven  have  flown. 


• 


"AXD  OVER  IT  WITH  FULLER  GLOKY  FLOWS." 

To  the  great  Soul  alone  are  all  things  known, 
Present  and  future  are  to  her  as  past, 
While  she  in  glorious  madness  doth  forecast 
That  perfect  bud  which  seems  a  flower  full-blown 
To  each  new  Prophet,  and  yet  always  opes 
Fuller  and  fuller  with  each  day  and  hour, 
Heartening  the  soul  with  odor  of  fresh  hopes, 

And  longings  high  and  gushings  of  wide  power ; 
Vet  never  is  or  shall  be  fully  blown 
Save  in  the  forethought  of  the  Eternal  <  >ne. 


86  f>afton's 

VI. 

Far  'yond  this  narrow  parapet  of  Time, 

With  eyes  uplift,  the  poet's  soul  should  look 
Into  the  Endless  Promise,  nor  should  brook 
One  prying  doubt  to  shake  his  faith  sublime , 
To  him  the  earth  is  ever  in  her  prime 
And  dewiness  of  morning;  he  can  see 
Good  lying  hid,  from  all  eternity, 
Within  the  teeming  womb  of  sin  and  crime, 
His  soul  shall  not  be  cramped  by  any  bar — 
His  nobleness  should  be  so  Godlike  high 
That  his  least  deed  is  perfect  as  a  star, 

His  common  look  majestic  as  the  sky, 
And  all  o'erflooded  with  a  light  from  far, 
Undimmed  by  clouds  of  weak  mortality. 

BOSTON,  April  2,  1842. 


HAKON'S  LAY. 

THEN  Thorstein  looked  at  Hakon,  where  he  sate, 

Mute  as  a  cloud  amid  the  stormy  hall, 

And  said  :   "  O,  Skald,  sing  now  an  olden  song, 

Such  as  our  fathers  heard  who  led  great  lives ; 

And,  as  the  bravest  on  a  shield  is  born 

Along  the  waving  host  that  shouts  him  king, 

So  rode  their  thrones  upon  the  thronging  seas!" 

Then  the  old  man  arose,  white-haired  he  stood, 
White-bearded,  and  with  eyes  that  looked  afar 
From  their  still  region  of  perpetual  snow, 
Over  the  little  smokes  and  stirs  of  men : 
His  head  was  bowed  with  gathered  flakes  of  years, 
As  winter  bends  the  sea-foreboding  pine, 
But  something  triumphed  in  his  brow  and  eye, 
Which  whoso  saw  it,  could  not  see  and  crouch  : 
Loud  rang  the  emptied  beakers  as  he  mused, 
Brooding  his  eyried  thoughts;  then,  as  an  eagle 
Circles  smooth-winged  above  the  wind-vexed  wood, 
So  wheeled  his  soul  into  the  air  of  song 
High  o'er  the  stormy  hall;  and  thus  he  sang: 

The  fletcher  for  his  arrow-shaft  picks  out 

Wood  closest-grained,  long-seasoned,  straight  as  light; 

And,  from  a  quiver  full  of  such  as  these, 

The  wary  bow-man,  matched  against  his  peers, 


AN'I)   THl'H    HK  SANG. 


Co  tbe  jfuturc. 

Long  doubting,  singles  yet  once  more  the  best. 
Who  is  it  that  can  make  such  shafts  as  Fate? 
What  archer  of  his  arrows  is  so  choice, 
Or  hits  the  white  so  surely?     They  are  men, 
The  chosen  of  her  quiver ;  not  for  her 
Will  every  reed  suffice,  or  cross-grained  stick 
At  random  from  life's  vulgar  fagot  plucked  : 
Such  answer  household  ends;  but  she  will  have 
Souls  straight  and  clear,  of  toughest  fibre,  sound 
Down  to  the  heart  of  heart ;  from  these  she  strips 
All  needless  stuff,  all  sapwood,  hardens  them, 
From  circumstance  untoward  feathers  plucks 
Crumpled  and  cheap,  and  barbs  with  iron  will : 
The  hour  that  passes  is  her  quiver-boy  ; 
When  she  draws  bow,  'tis  not  across  the  wind, 
Nor  'gainst  the  sun,  her  haste-snatched  arrow  sings, 
For  sun  and  wind  have  plighted  faith  to  her : 
Ere  men  have  heard  the  sinew  twang,  behold, 
In  the  butt's  heart  her  trembling  messenger! 

The  song  is  old  and  simple  that  I  sing : 
(iood  were  the  days  of  yore,  when  men  were  tried 
By  ring  of  shields,  as  now  by  ring  of  gold  ; 
But  while  the  gods  are  left,  and  hearts  of  men 
And  the  free  ocean,  still  the  days  are  good  ; 
Through  the  broad  Earth  roams  Opportunity 
And  knocks  at  every  door  of  hut  or  hall, 
Until  she  finds  the  brave  soul  that  she  wants." 

He  ceased,  and  instantly  the  frothy  tide 
Of  interrupted  wassail  roared  along; 
But  Leif,  the  son  of  Eric  sat  apart 
Musing,  and,  with  his  eyes  upon  the  fire, 
Saw  shapes  of  arrows,  lost  as  soon  as  seen  ; 
But  then  with  that  resolve  his  heart  was  bent, 
Which,  like  a  humming  shaft,  through  many  a  strife 
Of  day  and  night  across  the  unventured  seas, 
Shot  the  brave  prow  to  cut  on  Vinland  sands 
The  first  rune  in  the  Saga  of  the  West. 


TO  THE   FUTURE. 

O,  LAND  of  Promise  !  from  what  Pisgah's  height 

Can  I  behold  that  stretch  of  peaceful  bowers  ? 
Thy  golden  harvests  flowing  out  of  sight, 


Co  tbc  jfutuvc. 

Thy  nestled  homes  and  sun-illumined  towers  ? 
Gazing  upon  the  sunset's  high-heaped  gold, 

Its  crags  of  opal  and  of  chrysolite, 
Its  deeps  on  deeps  of  glory  that  unfold 
Still  brightening  abysses, 
And  blazing  precipices, 
Whence  but  a  scanty  leap  it  seems  to  heaven, 

Sometimes  a  glimpse  is  given, 
( )f  thy  more  gorgeous  realm,  thy  more  unstinted  blisses. 

O,  Land  of  Quiet!  to  thy  shore  the  surf 

Of  the  perturbed  Present  rolls  and  sleeps ; 
Our  storms  breathe  soft  as  June  upon  thy  turf 
And  lure  out  blossoms;  to  thy  bosom  leaps, 
As  to  a  mother's,  the  o'er-wearied  heart, 
Hearing  far  off  and  dim  the  toiling  mart, 

The  hurrying  feet,  the  curses  without  number 

And,  circled  with  the  glow  Elysian, 

Of  thine  exulting  vision, 
Out  of  its  very  cares  wooes  charms  for  peace  and  slumber. 

To  thee  the  earth  lifts  up  her  fettered  hands 

And  cries  for  vengeance ;  with  a  pitying  smile 
Thou  blessest  her,  and  she  forgets  her  bands, 

And  her  old  woe-worn  face  a  little  while 
Grows  young  and  noble ;  unto  thee  the  Oppressor 
Looks,  and  is  dumb  with  awe ; 
The  eternal  law 

Which  makes  the  crime  its  own  blindfold  redresser, 
Shadows  his  heart  with  perilous  foreboding, 
And  he  can  see  the  grim-eyed  Doom 
From  out  the  trembling  gloom 
Its  silent-footed  steeds  toward  his  palace  goading. 

What  promises  hast  thou  for  Poets'  eyes, 

Aweary  of  the  turmoil  and  the  wrong! 
To  all  their  hopes  what  over-joyed  replies ! 

What  undreamed  ecstacies  for  blissful  song! 
Thy  happy  plains  no  war-trump's  brawling  clangor 

Disturbs,  and  fools  the  poor  to  hate  the  poor; 
The  humble  glares  not  on  the  high  with  anger; 

Love  leaves  no  grudge  at  less,  no  greed  for  more  ; 
In  vain  strives  Self  the  godlike  sense  to  smother; 
From  the  soul's  deeps 
It  throbs  and  leaps; 
The  noble  neath  foul  raes  beholds  his  long-lost  brother. 


90  Go  tbc  future. 

To  thee  the  Martyr  looketh,  and  his  fires 
Unlock  their  fangs  and  leave  his  spirit  free; 

To  thee  the  Poet  mid  his  toil  aspires, 

And  grief  and  hunger  climb  about  his  knee 

Welcome  as  children ;  thou  upholdest 

The  lone  Inventor  by  his  demon  haunted  ; 

The  Prophet  cries  to  thee  when  hearts  are  coldest. 
And,  gazing  o'er  the  midnight's  bleak  abyss, 
Sees  the  drowsed  soul  awaken  at  thy  kiss, 

And  stretch  its  happy  arms  and  leap  up  disenchanted. 

Thou  bringest  vengeance,  but  so  loving  kindly 
The  guilty  thinks  it  pity ;  taught  by  thee 

Fierce  tyrants  drop  the  scourges  wherewith  blindly 
Their  own  souls  they  were  scarring;  conquerors  see 


"TO  THKE  THK  POET  MID   HIS  TOIL  ASPIRES." 

With  horror  in  their  hands  the  accursed  spear 
That  tore  the  meek  One's  side  on  Calvary, 

And  from  their  trophies  shrink  with  ghastly  fear ; 
Thou,  too,  art  the  Forgiver, 

The  beauty  of  man's  soul  to  man  revealing; 
The  arrows  from  thy  quiver 

Pierce  error's  guilty  heart,  but  only  pierce  for  healing. 

O,  whither,  whither,  glory-winged  dreams, 

From  out  Life's  sweat  and  turmoil  would  ye  bear  me  ? 


©ut  of  Doors.  91 

Shut,  gates  of  Fancy,  on  your  golden  gleams, 

This  agony  of  hopeless  contrast  spare  me ! 
Fade,  cheating  glow,  and  leave  me  to  my  night ! 
He  is  a  coward  who  would  borrow 
A  charm  against  the  present  sorrow 
From  the  vague  Future's  promise  of  delight : 
As  life's  alarums  nearer  roll. 
The  ancestral  buckler  calls. 
Self-clanging,  from  the  walls 
In  the  high  temple  of  the  soul; 
Where  are  most  sorrows,  there  the  poet's  sphere  is, 
To  feed  the  soul  with  patience, 
To  heal  its  desolations 
With  words  of  unshorn  truth,  with  love  that  never  wearies. 


OUT  OF  DOORS. 

'T  is  good  to  be  abroad  in  the  sun, 
His  gifts  abide  when  day  is  done; 
Each  thing  in  nature  from  his  cup 
Gathers  a  several  virtue  up ; 
The  grace  within  its  being's  reach 
Becomes  the  nutriment  of  each, 
And  the  same  life  imbibed  by  all 
Makes  each  most  individual : 
Here  the  twig-bending  peaches  seek 
The  glow  that  mantles  in  their  cheek — 
Hence  comes  the  Indian-summer  bloom 
That  hazes  round  the  basking  plum, 
And,  from  the  same  impartial  light, 
The  grass  sucks  green,  the  lily  white. 

Like  these  the  soul,  for  sunshine  made, 
Grows  wan  and  gracile  in  the  shade, 
Her  faculties,  which  God  decreed 
Various  as  Summer's  daedal  breed, 
With  one  sad  color  are  imbued, 
Shut  from  the  sun  that  tints  their  blood ; 
The  shadow  of  the  poet's  roof 
Deadens  the  dyes  of  warp  and  woof; 
Whate'er  of  ancient  song  remains 
Has  fresh  air  flowing  in  its  veins, 
For  Greece  and  eldest  Ind  knew  well 
That  out  of  doors,  with  world-wide  swell 
Arches  the  student's  lawful  cell. 


92  a  IRcvcric, 

Away,  unfruitful  lore  of  books, 

For  whose  vain  idiom  we  reject 

The  spirit's  mother-dialect, 

Aliens  among  the  birds  and  brooks, 

Dull  to  interpret  or  believe 

What  gospels  lost  the  woods  retrieve, 

Or  what  the  eves-dropping  violet 

Reports  from  God,  who  \valketh  yet 

His  garden  in  the  hush  of  eve ! 

Away,  ye  pedants  city-bred, 

Unwise  of  heart,  too  wise  of  head, 

Who  handcuff  Art  with  thus  and  so, 

And  in  each  other's  footprints  tread, 

Like  those  who  walk  through  drifted  snow 

Who  from  deep  study  of  brick  walls 
Conjecture  of  the  water-falls, 
By  six  square  feet  of  smoke-stained  sky 
Compute  those  deeps  that  overlie 
The  still  tarn's  heaven-anointed  eye, 
And,  in  your  earthen  crucible, 
With  chemic  tests  essay  to  spell 
How  nature  works  in  field  and  dell ! 
Seek  we  where  Shakespeare  buried  gold  ? 
Such  hands  no  charmed  witch-hazel  hold  ; 
To  beach  and  rock  repeats  the  sea 
The  mystic  Open  Sesame  ; 
Old  Greylock's  voices  not  in  vain 
Comment  on  Milton's  mountain  strain, 
And  cunningly  the  various  wind 
Spenser's  locked  music  can  unbind. 


A   REVERIE. 

IN  the  twilight  deep  and  silent 

Comes  thy  spirit  unto  mine, 

When  the  starlight  and  the  moonlight 

Over  cliff  and  woodland  shine. 

And  the  quiver  of  the  river 

Seems  a  thrill  of  joy  benign. 

Then  I  rise  and  go  in  fancy 
To  the  headland  by  the  sea, 
When  the  evening  star  throbs  setting 
Through  the  dusky  cedar-tree, 


WHO,   FROM  DEEP  STt'DY  OF  BRICK  WALLS  CONJECTURE 

OF  r:i!-;  WATER-FALLS." 


94  B  IRcvcrie. 

And  from  under,  low-voiced  thunder 
From  the  surf  swells  fitfully. 

Then  within  my  soul  I  feel  thee 
Like  a  gleam  of  bygone  years, 
Visions  of  my  childhood  murmur 
Their  old  madness  in  my  ears, 
Till  the  pleasance  of  thy  presence 
Crowds  my  heart  with  blissful  tears. 

All  the  wondrous  dreams  of  boyhood — 

All  youth's  fiery  thirst  of  praise — 

All  the  surer  hopes  of  manhood 

Blossoming  in  sadder  days — 

Joys  that  bound  me,  griefs  that  crowned  me 

With  a  better  wreath  than  bays — 

All  the  longings  after  freedom — 
The  vague  love  of  human  kind, 
Wandering  far  and  near  at  random 
Like  a  dead  leaf  on  the  wind — 
Rousing  only  in  the  lonely 
Twilight  of  an  aimless  mind,— 

All  of  these,  oh  best  beloved, 
Happiest  present  dreams  and  past. 
In  thy  love  find  safe  fulfilment, 
Ripened  into  truths  at  last; 
Faith  and  beauty,  hope  and  duty 
To  one  centre  gather  fast. 

How  my  spirit,  like  an  ocean, 
At  the  breath  of  thine  awakes, 
Leaps  its  shores  in  mad  exulting 
And  in  foamy  music  breaks, 
Then  downsinking,  lieth  shrinking 
At  the  tumult  that  it  makes  ! 

Blazing  Hesperus  hath  sunken 
Low  within  the  pale-blue  west, 
And  with  blazing  splendor  crowneth 
The  horizon's  piny  crest; 

Thoughtful  quiet  stills  the  riot 

Of  wild  longing  in  my  breast. 

Home  I  loiter  through  the  moonlight, 
Underneath  the  quivering  trees, 


LOITEU  TH  HOUGH 
MOONLIGHT." 


flu  Sadness.  95 


Which,  as  if  a  spirit  stirred  them, 
Sway  and  bend,  till  by  degrees 
The  far  surge's  murmur  merges 
In  the  rustle  of  the  breeze. 


IX  SADNESS. 

THERE  is  not  in  this  life  of  ours 

One  bliss  unmixed  \vith  fears; 
The  hope  that  wakes  our  deepest  powers 

A  face  of  sadness  wears, 
And  the  dew  that  showers  our  dearest  flowers 

Is  the  bitter  dew  of  tears. 

Fame  waiteth  long,  and  lingereth 

Through  weary  nights  and  morns — 
And  evermore  the  shadow  Death 

With  mocking  linger  scorns 
That  underneath  the  laurel  wreath 

Should  be  a  wreath  of  thorns. 

The  laurel  leaves  are  cool  and  green, 

But  the  thorns  are  hot  and  sharp, 
Lean  Hunger  grins  and  stares  between 

The  poet  and  his  harp; 
Though  of  Love's  sunny  sheen  his  woof  have  been, 

Grim  Want  thrusts  in  the  warp. 

And  if  beyond  this  darksome  clime 

Some  fair  star  Hope  may  see. 
That  keeps  unjarred  the  blissful  chime 

Of  its  golden  infancy — 
\Vhere  the  harvest-time  of  faith  sublime 

Xot  always  is  to  be — 

Yet  would  the  true  soul  rather  choose 

Its  home  where  sorrow  is, 
Than  in  a  sated  peace  to  lose 

Its  life's  supremest  bliss — 
The  rainbow  hues  that  bend  profuse 

O'er  cloudy  spheres  like  this — 

The  want,  the  sorrow  and  the  pain, 

That  are  Love's  right  to  cure — 
The  sunshine  bursting  after  rain — 


96  jfarewcll. 

The  gladness  insecure 
That  makes  us  fain  strong  hearts  to  gain, 
To  do  and  to  endure. 

High  natures  must  be  thunder-scarred 

With  many  a  searing  wrong ; 
From  mother  Sorrow's  breasts  the  bard 

Sucks  gifts  of  deepest  song, 
Nor  all  unmarred  with  struggles  hard 

Wax  the  Soul's  sinews  strong. 

Dear  Patience  too,  is  born  of  woe, 

Patience  that  opes  the  gate 
Where  through  the  soul  of  man  must  go 

Up  to  each  nobler  state, 
Whose  voice's  flow  so  meek  and'  low 

Smooths  the  bent  brows  of  Fate. 

Though  Fame  be  slow,  yet  Death  is  swift, 

And,  o'er  the  spirit's  eyes, 
Life  after  life  doth  change  and  shift 

With  larger  destinies . 
As  on  we  drift,  some  wider  rift 
Shows  us  serener  skies. 

And  though  naught  falleth  to  us  here 
But  gains  the  world  counts  loss, 

Though  all  we  hope  of  wisdom  clear 
When  climbed  to  seerns  but  dross, 

Yet  all,  though  ne'er  Christ's  faith  they  wear, 
At  least  may  share  his  cross. 


FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL!  as  the  bee  round  the  blossom 

Doth  murmur  drowsily, 

So  murmureth  round  my  bosom 

The  memory  of  thee ; 

Lingering,  it  seems  to  go, 

When  the  wind  more  full  doth  flow, 

Waving  the  flower  to  and  fro, 

But  still  returneth,  Marian  ! 

My  hope  no  longer  burneth, 

Which  did  so  fiercely  burn, 

My  joy  to  sorrow  turneth, 


ffareweii.  97 

Although  loath,  loath  to  turn — 

I  would  forget — 

And  yet — and  yet 

My  heart  to  thee  still  yearneth,  Marian  ! 

Fair  as  a  single  star  thou  shinest, 

And  white  as  lilies  are 

The  slender  hand  wherewith  thou  twinest 

Thy  heavy  auburn  hair ; 

Thou  art  to  me 

A  memory 

Of  all  that  is  divinest : 

Thou  art  so  fair  and  tall, 

Thy  looks  so  queenly  are. 

Thy  very  shadow  on  the  wall, 

Thy  step  upon  the  stair, 

The  thought  that  thou  art  nigh, 

The  chance  look  of  thine  eye 

Are  more  to  me  than  all,  Marian, 

And  will  be  till  I  die! 

As  the  last  quiver  of  a  bell 

Doth  fade  into  the  air, 

With  a  subsiding  swell 

That  dies  we  know  not  where, 

So  my  hope  melted  and  was  gone : 

I  raised  mine  eyes  to  bless  the  star 

That  shared  its  light  with  me  so  far 

Below  its  silver  throne, 

And  gloom  and  chilling  vacancy 

Were  all  was  left  to  me. 

In  the  dark,  bleak  night  I  was  alone? 

Alone  in  the  blessed  Earth,  Marian, 

For  what  were  all  to  me — 

Its  love,  and  light,  and  mirth.  Marian, 

If  I  were  not  with  thee  ? 

My  heart  will  not  forget  thee 
More  than  the  moaning  brine 
Forgets  the  moon  when  she  is  set ; 
The  gush  when  first  I  met  thee 
That  thrilled  my  brain  like  wine, 
Uoth  thrill  as  madly  yet; 
My  heart  cannot  forget  thee, 
Though  it  may  droop  and  pine, 
Too  deeply  it  had  set  thee 


*... 

"THY  STEP  1TPON  THE  STAIR." 


ffarewefl.  99 


In  every  love  of  mine ; 

No  new  moon  ever  cometh, 

No  flower  ever  bloometh, 

No  twilight  ever  gloometh 

But  I  'm  more  only  thine. 

Oh  look  not  on  me,  Marian, 

Thine  eyes  are  wild  and  deep, 

And  they  have  won  me,  Marian, 

From  peacefulness  and  sleep  ; 

The  sunlight  doth  not  sun  me, 

The  meek  moonshine  doth  shun  me, 

All  sweetest  voices  stun  me — 

There  is  no  rest 

Within  my  breast 

And  I  can  only  weep,  Marian ! 

As  a  landbird  far  at  sea 

Doth  wander  through  the  sleet 

And  drooping  downward  wearily 

Finds  no  rest  for  her  feet, 

So  wandereth  my  memory 

O'er  the  years  when  we  did  meet; 

I  used  to  say  that  everything 

Partook  a  share  of  thee, 

That  not  a  little  bird  could  sing, 

Or  green  leaf  flutter  on  the  tree, 

That  nothing  could  be  beautiful 

Save  part  of  thee  were  there, 

That  from  thy  soul  so  clear  and  full 

All  bright  and  blessed  things  did  cull 

The  charm  to  make  them  fair ; 

And  now  I  know 

That  it  was  so, 

Thy  spirit  through  the  earth  doth  flow 

And  face  me  whereso'er  I  go — 

What  right  hath  perfectness  to  give 

Such  weary  weight  of  wo 

Unto  the  soul  which  cannot  live 

On  anything  more  low  ? 

Oh  leave  me,  leave  me,  Marian, 

There  's  no  fair  thing  I  see 

But  doth  deceive  me,  Marian, 

Into  sad  dreams  of  thee ! 

A  cold  snake  gnaws  my  heart 
And  crushes  round  my  brain, 


ioo  B 


And  I  should  glory  but  to  part 

So  bitterly  again, 

Feeling  the  slow  tears  start 

And  fall  in  fiery  rain  ; 

There's  a  wide  ring  round  the  moon, 

The  ghost-like  clouds  glide  by, 

And  I  hear  the  sad  winds  croon 

A  dirge  to  the  lowering  sky  ; 

There  's  nothing  soft  or  mild 

In  the  pale  moon's  sickly  light, 

But  all  looks  strange  and  wild 

Through  the  dim,  foreboding  night; 

I  think  thou  must  be  dead 

In  some  dark  and  lonely  place, 

With  candles  at  thy  head, 

And  a  pall  above  thee  spread 

To  hide  thy  dead,  cold  face  ; 

But  I  can  see  thee  underneath 

So  pale,  and  still,  and  fair, 

Thine  eyes  closed  smoothly  and  a  wreath 

Of  Mowers  in  thy  hair; 

I  never  saw  thy  face  so  clear 

When  thou  wast  with  the  living, 

As  now  beneath  the  pall,  so  drear, 

And  stiff,  and  unforgiving  ; 

I  cannot  flee  thee,  Marian, 

I  cannot  turn  away. 

Mine  eyes  must  see  thee,  Marian, 

Through  salt  tears  night  and  day. 


A   DIKC.K. 

PORT!  lonely  is  thy  bed, 
And  the  turf  is  overhead — 

Cold  earth  is  thy  cover; 
But  thy  heart  hath  found  release. 
And  its  slumbers  full  of  peace 
'Neath  the  rustle  of  green  trees 
And  the  warm  hum  of  the  bees, 

'Mid  the  drowsy  clover; 
Through  thy  chamber,  still  as  death 
A  smooth  gurgle  wandereth, 
As  the  blue  stream  murmureth 

To  the  blue  skv  over. 


H 


Three  paces  from  the  silver  strand, 
Gently  in  the  fine,  white  sand, 
With  a  lily  in  thy  hand, 

Pale  as  snow,  they  laid  thee ; 
In  no  coarse  earth  wast  thou  hid, 
And  no  gloomy  coffin-lid 

Darkly  ovenveighed  thee. 
Silently  as  snow-Hakes  drift, 
The  smooth  sand  did  sift  and  sift 

O'er  the  bed  they  made  thee ; 
All  sweet  birds  did  come  and  sing 
At  thy  sunny  burying — 
Choristers  unbidden, 
And,  beloved  of  sun  and  dew, 
Meek  forget-me-nots  upgrew 
Where  thine  eyes  so  large  and  blue 
'Neath  the  turf  were  hidden, 

Where  thy  stainless  clay  doth  lie, 
Blue  and  open  is  the  sky, 
And  the  white  clouds  wander  by, 
Dreams  of  summer  silently 

Darkening  the  river ; 
Thou  hearest  the  clear  water  run  ; 
And  the  ripples  every  one, 
Scattering  the  golden  sun, 

Through  thy  silence  quiver ; 
Vines  trail  down  upon  the  stream. 
Into  its  smooth  and  glassy  dream 

A  green  stillness  spreading, 
And  the  shiner,  perch,  and  bream 
Through  the  shadowed  waters  gleam 

'Gainst  the  current  heading. 

White  as  snow,  thy  winding  sheet 
Shelters  thee  from  head  to  feet, 

Save  thy  pale  face  only; 
Thy  face  is  turned  toward  the  skies, 
The  lids  lie  meekly  o'er  thine  eyes, 
And  the  low-voiced  pine-tree  sighs 

O'er  thy  bed  so  lonely 
All  thy  life  thou  lov'dst  its  shade; 
Underneath  it  thou  art  laid, 

In  an  endless  shelter ; 
Thou  hearest  it  forever  sigh 
As  the  wind's  vague  longings  die 


'POET!    LONELY  IS   THY  BKO,   AND 
THE  TURK  IS  OVERHEAD." 


21  Dirge. 

In  its  branches  dim  and  high — 
Thou  hear'st  the  waters  gliding  by 
Slumberously  welter. 

Thou  wast  full  of  love  and  truth 

Of  forgivingness  and  ruth — 
Thy  great  heart  with  hope  and  youth 

Tided  to  overflowing. 
Thou  didst  dwell  in  mysteries, 
And  there  lingered  on  thine  eyes 
Shadows  of  serener  skies, 
Awfully  wild  memories, 

That  were  like  foreknowing ; 
Through  the  earth  thou  would'st  have  gone, 
Lighted  from  within  alone, 
Seeds  from  flowers  in  Heaven  grown 

With  a  free  hand  sowing. 

Thou  didst  remember  well  and  long 

Some  fragments  of  thine  angel-song, 

And  strive,  through  want  and  wo  and  wrong, 

To  win  the  world  unto  it ; 
Thy  curse  it  was  to  see  and  hear 
Beyond  To-day's  dim  hemisphere — 
Beyond  all  mists  of  doubt  and  fear, 
Into  a  life  more  true  and  clear, 

And  dearly  thou  didst  rue  it; 
Light  of  the  new  world  thou  hadst  won, 
O'erflooded  by  a  purer  sun — 
Slowly  Fate's  ships  came  drifting  on, 
And  through  the  dark,  save  thou,  not  one 

Caught  of  the  land  a  token, 
Thou  stood 'st  upon  the  farthest  prow 
Something  within  thy  soul  said  "Now!" 
And  leaping  forth  with  eager  brow, 

Thou  fell'st  on  shore  heart-broken. 

Long  time  thy  brethren  stood  in  fear; 
Only  the  breakers  far  and  near, 
White  with  their  anger,  they  could  hear ; 
The  sounds  of  land,  which  thy  quick  ear 

Caught  long  ago,  they  heard  not. 
And  when  at  last  they  reached  the  strand, 
They  found  thee  lying  on  the  sand 
With  some  wild  flowers  in  thy  hand, 

But  thy  cold  bosom  stirred  not : 


B  Dirge. 


103 


"THEY  FOUND  TIIKK   LYING  ON  THE  SAND." 

They  listened,  but  they  heard  no  sound 
Save  from  the  glad  life  all  around 

A  low,  contented  murmur, 
The  long  grass  flowed  adown  the  hill, 
A  hum  rose  from  a  hidden  rill, 
But  thy  glad  heart,  that  knew  no  ill 
But  too  much  love,  lay  dead  and  still — 
The  only  thing  that  sent  a  chill 

Into  the  heart  of  summer. 

Thou  didst  not  seek  the  poet's  wreath 

But  too  soon  didst  win  it; 
Without  'was  green,  but  underneath 
Were  scorn  and  loneliness  and  death. 
Gnawing  the  brain  with  burning  teeth, 

And  making  mock  within  it. 
Thou,  who  wast  full  of  nobleness, 
Whose  very  life-blood  't  was  to  bless, 

Whose  soul's  one  law  was  giving, 
Must  bandy  words  with  wickedness, 
Haggle  with  hunger  and  distress, 
To  win  that  death  which  worldliness 

Calls  bitterly  a  living, 

Thou  sow'st  no  gold,  and  shall  not  reap  ?': 
Muttered  earth,  turning  in  her  sleep ; 
Come  home  to  the  Kternal  Deep!" 
Murmured  a  voice,  and  a  wide  sweep 
Of  wings  through  thy  soul's  hush  did  creep; 

As  of  thy  doom  o'erflying; 
It  seemed  that  thy  strong  heart  would  leap 
Out  of  thy  breast,  and  thou  didst  weep, 

But  not  with  fear  of  dying ; 


104  S   Dircic. 

Men  could  not  fathom  thy  deep  fears, 
They  could  not  understand  thy  tears, 
The  hoarded  agony  of  years 

Of  bitter  self-denying 
So  once,  when  high  above  the  spheres 
Thy  spirit  sought  its  starry  peers, 
It  came  not  back  to  face  the  jeers 

Of  brothers  who  denied  it ; 
Star-crowned,  thou  dost  possess  the  deeps 
Of  God,  and  thy  white  body  sleeps 
Where  the  lone  pine  forever  keeps 

Patient  watch  beside  it. 

Poet  !  underneath  the  turf, 

Soft  thou  sleepest,  free  from  morrow, 
Thou  hast  struggled  through  the  surf 

Of  wild  thoughts  and  want  and  sorrow 
Now,  beneath  the  moaning  pine, 

Full  of  rest,  thy  body  lieth, 
While  far  up  in  pure  sunshine, 
Underneath  a  sky  divine, 

Her  loosed  wings  thy  spirit  trieth ; 
Oft  she  strove  to  spread  them  here, 
But  they  were  too  white  and  clear 
For  our  dingy  atmosphere. 

Thy  body  findeth  ample  room 
In  its  still  and  grassy  tomb 

By  the  silent  river; 
But  thy  spirit  found  the  earth 
Narrow  for  the  mighty  birth 

Which  it  dreamed  of  ever : 
Thou  wast  guilty  of  a  rhyme 
Learned  in  a  benigner  clime, 
And  of  that  more  grievous  crime, 
An  ideal  too  sublime 
For  the  low-hung  sky  of  Time. 

The  calm  spot  where  thy  body  lies 
Gladdens  thy  soul  in  Paradise, 

It  is  so  still  and  holy ; 
Thy  body  sleeps  serenely  there, 
And  well  for  it  thy  soul  may  care. 
It  was  so  beautiful  and  rare, 

Lily  white  so  wholly. 


^fancies  about  a  IRosebuD. 


105 


From  so  pure  and  sweet  a  frame 
Thy  spirit  parted  as  it  came, 
Gentle  as  a  maiden ; 
Now  it  hath  its  full  of  rest — • 
Sods  are  lighter  on  its  breast 
Than  the  great,  prophetic  guest 
Wherewith  it  was  laden. 


FANCIES  ABOUT  A  ROSEBUD. 

PRESSED  IN  AN  OLD  COPY  OF  SPENSER 

WHO  prest  you  here  ?  The  past  can  tell, 
When  summer  skies  were  bright  above, 

And  some  full  heart  did  leap  and  swell 
Beneath  the  white  new  moon  of  love. 


Some  Poet,  haply,  when  the 

world 
Showed  like  a  calm  sea, 

grand  and  blue, 
Ere  its  cold,  inky  waves  had 

curled 

O'er  the  numb  heart  once 
warm  and  true ; 


When,  with  his  soul  brimful 

of  morn, 

He  looked  beyond  the  vale 
of  Time, 

Nor  saw  therein  the  dullard  scorn 
That  made  his  heavenliness  a  crime ; 

\Vhen,  musing  o'er  the  Poets  olden 
His  soul  did  like  a  sun  upstart 

To  shoot  its  arrows,  clear  and  golden, 

Through  slavery's  cold  and  darksome  heart. 

Alas !  too  soon  the  veil  is  lifted 

That  hangs  between  the  soul  and  pain, 

Too  soon  the  morning-red  hath  drifted 
Into  dull  cloud,  or  fallen  in  rain ! 

Or  were  you  prest  by  one  who  nurst 
Bleak  memories  of  love  gone  by, 


"  WHO  PREST  YOU  HERE  ?  ' 


io6  ^fancies  about  a  IRosebufc. 

Whose  heart,  like  a  star  fallen,  burst 
In  dark  and  erring  vacancy  ? 

To  him  you  still  were  fresh  and  green 
As  when  you  grew  upon  the  stalk, 

And  many  a  breezy  summer  scene 

Came  back — and  many  a  moonlit  walk ; 

And  there  would  be  a  hum  of  bees, 
A  smell  of  childhood  in  the  air, 

And  old,  fresh  feelings  cooled  the  breeze 
That,  like  loved  fingers,  stirred  his  hair! 

\Yhen  would  you  suddenly  be  blasted 
By  the  keen  wind  of  one  dark  thought, 

One  nameless  woe,  that  had  outlasted 

The  sudden  blow  whereby  't  was  brought. 

Or  were  you  prest  here  by  two  lovers 
Who  seemed  to  read  these  verses  rare, 

But  found  between  the  antique  covers 
What  Spenser  could  not  prison  there  : 

Songs  which  his  glorious  soul  had  heard, 
But  his  dull  pen  could  never  write, 

Which  flew,  like  some  gold-winged  bird, 
Through  the  blue  heaven  out  of  sight  ? 

My  heart  is  with  them  as  they  sit, 
I  see  the  rosebud  in  her  breast, 

I  see  her  small  hand  taking  it 

From  out  its  odorous,  snowy  nest ; 

I  hear  him  swear  that  he  will  keep  it, 
In  memory  of  that  blessed  day, 

To  smile  on  it  or  over-weep  it 

When  she  and  spring  are  far  away. 

Ah  me !  I  needs  must  droop  my  head, 
And  brush  away  a  happy  tear, 

For  they  are  gone,  and,  dry  and  dead, 
The  rosebud  lies  before  me  here. 

Vet  is  it  in  no  stranger's  hand, 
For  I  will  guard  it  tenderly, 


fancies  about  a  IRosebufc. 

And  it  shall  be  a  magic  wand 

To  bring  mine  own  true  love  to  me. 

My  heart  runs  o'er  with  sweet  surmises, 
The  while  my  fancy  weaves  her  rhyme, 

Kind  hopes  and  musical  surprises 

Throng  round  me  from  the  olden  time. 


107 


"  I  SEE  HER  SMALL  HAND  TAKING  IT  FROM  OUT  ITS 
ODOROUS,   SNOWY    NEST." 


I  do  not  care  to  know  who  prest  you : 

Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 
That  some  heart's  love  and  longing  blest  you, 
Knitting  to-day,  with  long-ago. 


io8  flew  gear's  JSve,  1844. 

NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,  1844. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

THE  night  is  calm  and  beautiful;  the  snow 

Sparkles  beneath  the  clear  and  frosty  moon 

And  the  cold  stars,  as  if  it  took  delight 

In  its  own  silent  whiteness ;  the  hushed  earth 

Sleeps  in  the  soft  arms  of  the  embracing  blue, 

Secure  as  if  angelic  squadrons  yet 

Encamped  about  her,  and  each  watching  star 

Gained  double  brightness  from  the  flashing  arms 

Of  winged  and  unsleeping  sentinels. 

Upward  the  calm  of  infinite  silence  deepens, 

The  sea  that  Hows  between  high  heaven  and  earth. 

Musing  by  whose  smooth  brink  we  sometimes  find 

A  stray  leaf  floated  from  those  happier  shores, 

And  hope,  perchance  not  vainly,  that  some  flower, 

Which  we  had  watered  with  our  holiest  tears, 

Pale  blooms,  and  yet  our  scanty  garden's  best, 

O'er  the  same  ocean  piloted  by  love, 

May  find  a  haven  at  the  feet  of  God, 

And  be  not  wholly  worthless  in  his  sight, 

O,  high  dependence  on  a  higher  Power, 

Sole  stay  for  all  these  restless  faculties 

That  wander,  Ishmael-like,  the  desert  bare 

Wherein  our  human  knowledge  hath  its  home, 

Shifting  their  light-framed  tents  from  day  to  day, 

With  each  new-found  oasis,  wearied  soon, 

And  only  of  uncertainty ! 

O,  mighty  humbleness  that  feels  with  awe, 

Yet  with  a  vast  exulting  feels,  no  less, 

That  this  huge  Minster  of  the  Universe, 

Whose  smallest  oratories  are  glorious  worlds, 

With  painted  oriels  of  dawn  and  sunset ; 

Whose  carved  ornaments  are  systems  grand, 

Orion  kneeling  in  his  starry  niche, 

The  Lyre  whose  strings  give  music  audible 

To  holy  ears,  and  countless  splendors  more, 

Crowned  by  the  blazing  Cross  high-hung  o'er  all ; 

Whose  organ  music  is  the  solemn  stops 

Of  endless  Change  breathed  through  by  endless  Good 

Whose  choristers  are  all  the  morning  stars ; 

Whose  altar  is  the  sacred  human  heart 

Whereon  Love's  candles  burn  unquenchably, 

Trimmed  day  and  night  by  gentle-handed  Peace ; 


Iftew  gear's  £vc,  1844.  109 

With  all  its  arches  and  its  pinnacles 

That  stretch  forever  and  forever  up, 

Is  founded  on  the  silent  heart  of  God, 

Silent,  yet  pulsing  forth  exhaustless  life 

Through  the  least  veins  of  all  created  things. 

Fit  musings  these  for  the  departing  year ; 

And  God  be  thanked  for  such  a  crystal  night 

As  fills  the  spirit  with  good  store  of  thoughts, 

That,  like  a  cheering  fire  of  walnut,  crackle 

Upon  the  hearthstone  of  the  heart,  and  cast 

A  mild  home-glow  o'er  all  Humanity  ! 

Yes,  though  the  poisoned  shafts  of  evil  doubts 

Assail  the  skyey  panoply  of  Faith, 

Though  the  great  hopes  which  we  have  had  for  man, 

Foes  in  disguise,  because  they  based  belief 

On  man's  endeavor,  not  on  God's  decree — 

Though  these  proud-visaged  hopes,  once  turned  to  fly, 

Hurl  backward  many  a  deadly  Parthian  dart 

That  rankles  in  the  soul  and  makes  it  sick 

With  vain  regret,  nigh  verging  on  despair — 

Yet,  in  such  calm  and  earnest  hours  as  this, 

We  well  can  feel  how  every  living  heart 

That  sleeps  to-night  in  palace  or  in  cot, 

Or  unroofed  hovel,  or  which  need  hath  known 

Of  other  homestead  than  the  arching  sky, 

Is  circled  watchfully  with  seraph  fires ; 

How  our  own  erring  will  it  is  that  hangs 

The  flaming  sword  o'er  Eden's  unclosed  gate, 

Which  gives  free  entrance  to  the  pure  in  heart, 

And  with  its  guarding  walls  doth  fence  the  meek. 

Sleep  then,  O  Earth,  in  thy  blue-vaulted  cradle, 

Bent  over  always  by  thy  mother  Heaven ! 

We  all  are  tall  enough  to  reach  God's  hand, 

And  angels  are  no  taller :  looking  back 

Upon  the  smooth  wake  of  a  year  o'er  past, 

We  see  the  black  clouds  furling,  one  by  one, 

From  the  advancing  majesty  of  Truth, 

And  something  won  for  Freedom,  whose  least  gain 

Is  as  a  firm  and  rock-built  citadel 

Wherefrom  to  launch  fresh  battle  on  her  foes ; 

Or,  leaning  from  the  time's  extremest  prow, 

If  we  gaze  forward  through  the  blinding  spray, 

And  dimly  see  how  much  of  ill  remains, 

How  many  fetters  to  be  sawn  asunder 

By  the  slow  toil  of  individual  zeal, 


"Wcw  gear's  JBve,  1844. 

Or  haply  rusted  by  salt  tears  in  twain, 
We  feel,  with  something  of  a  sadder  heart, 
Yet  bracing  up  our  bruised  mail  the  while, 
And  fronting  the  old  foe  with  fresher  spirit, 
How  great  it  is  to  breathe  with  human  breath; 
To  be  but  poor  foot-soldiers  in  the  ranks 
Of  our  old  exiled  king,  Humanity; 
Encamping  after  every  hard-won  field 
Nearer  and  nearer  Heaven's  happy  plains. 


"WE  SEE  THE   BLACK  CLOUDS  FURLING,  ONE  BY  ONE. 

Many  great  souls  have  gone  to  rest,  and  sleep 
Under  this  armor,  .free  and  full  of  peace : 
If  these  have  left  the  earth,  yet  Truth  remains, 
Endurance,  too,  the  crowning  faculty 


IHevv  gear's  jEve,   IS44. 

Of  noble  minds,  and  Love,  invincible 

By  any  weapons ;  and  these  hem  us  round 

With  silence  such  that  all  the  groaning  clank 

Of  this  mad  engine  men  have  made  of  earth 

Dulls  not  some  ears  for  catching  purer  tones, 

That  wander  from  the  dim  surrounding  vast, 

Or  iar  more  clear  melodious  prophecies, 

The  natural  music  of   the  heart  of  man, 

Which  by  kind  Sorrow's  ministry  hath  learned 

That  the  true  sceptre  of  all  power  is  love, 

And  humbleness  the  palace-gate  of  truth. 

Wnat  man  with  soul  so  blind  as  sees  not  here 

The  first  faint  tremble  of  Hope's  morning-star, 

Foretelling  how  the  God-forged  shafts  of  dawn, 

Fitted  already  on  their  golden  string, 

Shall  soon  leap  earthward  with  exulting  flight 

To  thrid  the  dark  heart  of  that  evil  faith 

Whose  trust  is  in  the  clumsy  arms  of  Force, 

The  ozier  hauberk  of  a  ruder  age  ? 

Freedom!   thou  other  name  for  happy  Truth, 

Thou  warrior-maid,  whose  steel-clad  feet  were  never 

Out  of  the  stirrup,  nor  thy  lance  uncouched, 

Nor  thy  fierce  eye  enticed  from  its  watch, 

Thou  hast  learned  now,  by  hero-blood  in  vain 

Poured  to  enrich  the  soil  which  tyrants  reap ; 

By  wasted  lives  of  prophets,  and  of  those 

Who,  by  the  promise  in  their  souls  upheld, 

Into  the  red  arms  of  a  fiery  death 

Went  blithely  as  the  golden-girdled  bee 

Sinks  in  the  sleepy  poppy's  cup  of  flame 

By  the  long  woes  of  nations  set  at  war, 

That  so  the  swollen  torrent  of  their  wrath 

May  find  a  vent,  else  sweeping  off  like  straws 

The  thousand  cobweb  threads,  grown  cable  huge 

By  time's  long-gathered  dust,  but  cobwebs  still, 

Which  bind  the  many  that  the  Few  may  gain 

Leisure  to  wither  by  the  drought  of  ease 

What  heavenly  germs  in  their  own  souls  were  sown; — 

By  all  these  searching  lessons  thou  hast  learned 

To  throw  aside  thy  blood-stained  helm  and  spear 

And  with  thy  bare  brow  daunt  the  enemy's  front, 

Knowing  that  God  will  make  the  lily  stalk, 

In  the  soft  grasp  of  naked  Gentleness, 

Stronger  than  iron  spear  to  shatter  through 

The  sevenfold  toughness  of  Wrong's  idle  shield. 


H2  a  /fcgstical  JBallaD. 

A   MYSTICAL  BALLAD. 


THE  sunset  scarce  had  dimmed  away 
Into  the  twilight's  doubtful  gray : 
One  long  cloud  o'er  the  horizon  lay, 
'Neath  which,  a  streak  of  bluish  white 
Wavered  between  the  day  and  night ; 
Over  the  pine-trees  on  the  hill 
The  trembly  evening  star  did  thrill, 
And  the  new  moon,  with  slender  rim, 
Through  the  elm  arches  gleaming  dim, 
Filled  memory's  chalice  to  the  brim. 

n. 

On  such  an  eve  the  heart  doth  grow 
Full  of  surmise,  and  scarce  can  know 
If  it  be  now  or  long  ago, 
Or  if  indeed  it  doth  exist ; — 
A  wonderful  enchanted  mist 
From  the  new  moon  doth  wander  out, 
Wrapping  all  things  in  mystic  doubt, 
So  that  this  world  doth  seem  untrue, 
And  all  our  fancies  to  take  hue 
From  some  life  ages  since  gone  through. 

in. 

The  maiden  sat  and  heard  the  flow 
Of  the  west  wind  so  soft  and  low 
The  leaves  scarce  quivered  to  and  fro ; 
Unbound,  her  heavy  golden  hair 
Rippled  across  her  bosom  bare, 
Which  gleamed  with  thrilling  snowy  white 
Far  through  the  magical  moonlight : 
The  breeze  rose  with  a  rustling  swell, 
And  from  afar  there  came  the  smell 
Of  a  long-forgotten  lily-bell. 

IV. 

The  dim  moon  rested  on  the  hill, 
But  silent,  without  thought  or  will, 
Where  sat  the  dreamy  maiden  still; 
And  now  the  moon's  tip,  like  a  star, 
Drew  down  below  the  horizon's  bar ; 
To  her  black  noon  the  night  hath  grown, 
Yet  still  the  maiden  sits  alone. 


B  /Ifogettcal  JBallaD. 

Pale  as  a  corpse  beneath  a  stream, 
And  her  white  bosom  still  doth  gleam 
Through  the  deep  midnight  like  a  dream. 


Cloudless  the  morning  came  and  fair. 

And  lavishly  the  sun  doth  share 

His  gold  among  her  golden  hair, 

Kindling  it  all,  till  slowly  so 

A  glory  round  her  head  doth  glow ; 

A  withered  flower  is  in  her  hand, 

That  grew  in  some  far  distant  land, 

And,  silently  transfigured, 

With  wide  calm  eyes,  and  undrooped  head, 

They  found  the  stranger-maiden  dead. 

VI. 

A  youth,  that  morn,  'Neath  other  skies, 
Felt  sudden  tears  burn  in  his  eyes, 
And  his  heart  throng  with  memories ; 
All  things  without  him  seemed  to  win 
Strange  brotherhood  with  things  within, 
And  he  forever  felt  that  he 
Walked  in  the  midst  of  mystery, 
And  thenceforth,  why,  he  could  not  tell, 
His  heart  would  curdle  at  the  smell 
Of  his  once-cherished  lily-bell. 

VII. 

Something  from  him  had  passed  away ; 
Some  shifting  trembles  of  clear  day, 
Through  starry  crannies  in  his  clay, 
Grew  bright  and  steadfast,  more  and  more, 
Where  all  had  been  dull  earth  before; 
And,  through  these  chinks,  like  him  of  old, 
His  spirit  converse  high  did  hold 
\Vith  clearer  loves  and  wider  powers, 
That  brought  him  dewy  fruits  and  flowers 
From  far  Elysian  groves  and  bowers. 

VIII. 

Just  on  the  farthest  bound  of  sense, 

Unproved  by  outward  evidence, 

But  known  by  a  deep  influence 

Which  through  our  grosser  clay  doth  shine 

With  light  unwaning  and  divine, 


'WITH    WIDE  CALM   EYES.   AND    rNTmoOl'KI)  HEAD, 
THEY   KOl'XI)  THE  STKANGEK-MAIDEN    DEAD." 


a  gear's  Xifc.  115 

Beyond  where  highest  thought  can  fly 
Stretcheth  the  world  of  Mystery — 
And  they  not  greatly  overween 
Who  deem  that  nothing  true  hath  been 
Save  the  unspeakable  Unseen. 

IX. 

One  step  beyond  life's  work-day  things, 
One  more  beat  of  the  soul's  broad  wings, 
One  deeper  sorrow  sometimes  brings 
The  spirit  into  that  great  Vast 
Where  neither  future  is  nor  past ; 
None  knoweth  how  he  entered  there, 
But,  waking,  finds  his  spirit  where 
He  thought  an  angel  could  not  soar, 
And,  what  he  called  false  dreams  before, 
The  very  air  about  his  door. 

x. 

These  outward  seemings  are  but  shows 
Whereby  the  body  sees   and  knows ; 
Far  down  beneath,  forever  flows 
A  stream  of  subtlest  sympathies 
That  make  our  spirits  strangely  wise 
In  awe,  and  fearful  bodings  dim 
Which,  from  the  sense's  outer  rim, 
Stretch  forth  beyond  our  thought  and  sight, 
Fine  arteries  of  circling  light, 
Pulsed  outward  from  the  Infinite. 


OPENING    POEM    TO 

A  YEAR'S  LIFE. 

HOPE  first  the  youthful  Poet  leads, 
And  he  is  glad  to  follow  her: 
Kind  is  she,  and  to  all  his  needs 
With  a  free  hand  doth  minister. 

But,  when  sweet  Hope  at  last  hath  fled, 
Cometh  her  sister,  Memory ; 
She  wreathes  Hope's  garlands  round  her  head, 
And  strives  to  seem  as  fair  as  she 

Then  Hope  comes  back  and  by  the  hand 
She  leads  a  child  most  fair  to  see, 


u6 


Who  with  a  joyous  face  doth  stand 
Uniting  Hope  and  Memory. 

So  brighter  grew  the  Earth  around, 
And  bluer  grew  the  sky  above ; 

The  Poet  now  his  guide 

hath  found, 

And  follows  in  the  steps  of 
Love. 


DEDICATION. 

TO    VOLUME  OF    POEMS 
ENTITLED, 

A  YEAR'S  LIFE. 

THE  gentle  Una  I  have 

loved, 
The  snowy  maiden  pure 

and  mild, 
Since  ever  by  her  side 

I  roved, 
Through  ventures  strange,  a 

wondering  child, 
In  fantasy  a  Red  Cross 

Knight, 
Burning  for  her  dear  sake 

to  fight. 


If  there  be  one  who  can, 

like  her, 
Make  sunshine  in  life's 

shady  places, 
One  in  whose  holy  bosom 

"IN  FANTASY   A  KEL>  CROSS  KNIGHT,  stir 

BURNING  FOR  HER  DEAR  SAKE  TO  FIGHT."   As  many  gentle    household 

graces — 

And  such  I  think  there  needs  must  be — - 
Will  she  accept  this  book  from  me  ? 


EbrenoOfa.  117 

THRENODIA. 

GONE,  gone  from  us  !  and  shall  we  see 

Those  sybil-leaves  of  destiny, 

Those  calm  eyes,  nevermore  ? 

Those  deep,  dark  eyes  so  warm  and  bright, 

Wherein  the  fortunes  of  the  man 

Lay  slumbering  in  prophetic  light, 

In  characters  a  child  might  scan  ? 

So  bright,  and  gone  forth  utterly  ? 

O  stern  word — Nevermore  ! 

The  stars  of  those  two  gentle  eyes 
Will  shine  no  more  on  earth  ; 
Quenched  are  the  hopes  that  had  their  birth, 
As  we  watched  them  slowly  rise, 
Stars  of  a  mother's  fate ; 
And  she  would  read  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
Pondering,  as  she  sate, 
Over  their  dear  astrology, 
Which  she  had  conned  and  conned  before, 
Deeming  she  needs  must  read  aright 
What  was  writ  so  passing  bright. 
And  yet,  alas !  she  knew  not  why, 
Her  voice  would  falter  in  its  song, 
And  tears  would  slide  from  out  her  eye, 
Silent,  as  they  were  doing  wrong. 
Her  heart  was  like  a  wind-flower,  bent 
Even  to  breaking  with  the  balmy  dew, 
Turning  its  heavenly  nourishment 
(That  filled  with  tears  its  eyes  of  blue, 
Like  a  sweet  suppliant  that  weeps  in  prayer, 
Making  her  innocency  show  more  fair, 
Albeit  unwitting  of  the  ornament,) 
Into  a  load  too  great  for  it  to  bear: 

0  stern  word — Nevermore ! 

The  tongue,  that  scarce  had  learned  to  claim 
An  entrance  to  a  mother's  heart 
By  that  dear  talisman,  a  mother's  name, 
Sleeps  all  forgetful  of  its  art ! 

1  love  to  see  the  infant  soul 
(How  mighty  in  the  weakness 
Of  its  untutored  meekness!) 
Peep  timidly  from  out  its  nest 
His  lips,  the  while, 


us  Cbrenofcia. 

fluttering  with  half-fledged  words 

Or  hushing  to  a  smile 

That  more  than  words  expressed, 

When  his  glad  mother  on  him  stole 

And  snatched  him  to  her  breast! 

(),  thoughts  were  brooding  in  those  eyes, 

That  would  have  soared  like  strong-winged  birds 

Far,  far  into  the  skies, 

Gladding  the  earth  with  song 

And  gushing  harmonies, 

Had  he  but  tarried  with  us  long ! 

O  stern  word— Nevermore! 

How  peacefully  they  rest, 
Crossfolded  there 
Upon  his  little  breast, 

Those  small,  white  hands  that  ne'er  were  still  before, 
But  ever  sported  with  his  mother's  hair, 
Or  the  plain  cross  that  on  her  breast  she  wore ! 
Her  heart  no  more  will  beat 
To  feel  the  touch  of  that  soft  palm, 
That  ever  seemed  a  new  surprise 
Sending  glad  thoughts  up  to  her  eyes 
To  bless  him  with  their  holy  calm — 
Sweet  thoughts!  that  made  her  eyes  as  sweet, 
How  quiet  are  the  hands 
That  wove  those  pleasant  bands ! 
But  that  they  do  not  rise  and  sink 
With  his  calm  breathing,  I  should  think 
That  he  were  dropped  asleep ; 
Alas!  too  deep,  too  deep 
In  this  his  slumber! 
Time  scarce  can  number 
The  years  ere  he  will  wake  again 
O,  may  we  see  his  eyelids  open  then  ! 
O  stern  word — Nevermore ! 

As  the  airy  gossamere, 
Floating  in  the  sunlight  clear, 
Where'er  it  toucheth  clinging  tightly 
Round  glossy  leaf  or  stump  unsightly, 
So  from  his  spirit  wandered  out 
Tendrils  spreading  all  about, 
Knitting  all  things  to  its  thrall 
With  a  perfect  love  of  all : 
O  stern  word — Nevermore ! 


Cbe  Serenade.  119 


He  did  but  float  a  little  way 
Adown  the  stream  of  time, 
With  dreamy  eyes  watching  the  ripples  play, 
Or  listen  to  their  fairy  chime; 
His  slender  sail 
Ne'er  felt  the  gale ; 
He  did  but  float  a  little  way, 
And,  putting  to  the  shore 
While  yet  't  was  early  day, 
Went  calmly  on  his  way, 
To  dwell  with  us  no  more ! 
No  jarring  did  he  feel, 
No  grating  on  his  vessel's  keel ; 
A  strip  of  silver  sand 
Mingled  the  waters  with  the  land 
Where  he  was  seen  no  more : 
O  stern  word — Nevermore  ! 

Full  short  his  journey  was ;  no  dust 
Of  earth  unto  his  sandals  clave; 
The  weary  weight  that  old  men  must, 
He  bore  not  to  the  grave. 
He  seemed  a  cherub  who  had  lost  his  way 
And  wandered  hither,  so  his  stay 
With  us  was  short,  and  'twas  most  meet 
That  he  should  be  no  delver  in  Earth's  clod, 
Nor  need  to  pause  and  cleanse  his  feet 
To  stand  before  his  God ; 
O  blest  word — Evermore  ! 


THE  SERENADE. 

GENTLE,  Lady,  be  thy  sleeping, 
Peaceful  may  thy  dreamings  be. 
While  around  thy  soul  is  sweeping, 
Dreamy-winged,  our  melody ; 
Chant  we,  Brothers,  sad  and  slow, 
Let  our  song  be  soft  and  low 
As  the  voice  of  other  years, 
Let  our  hearts  within  us  melt, 
To  gentleness,  as  if  we  felt 
The  dropping  of  our  mother's  tears. 


120  Cbe  ScrcnaOe. 

Lady !  now  our  song  is  bringing 
Back  again  thy  childhood's  hours — 
Hearest  thou  the  humbee  singing 
Drowsily  among  the  flowers? 
Sleepily,  sleepily 
In  the  noontide  swayeth  he, 
Half  rested  on  the  slender  stalks 
That  edge  those  well-known  garden  walks ; 
Hearest  thou  the  fitful  whirring 
Of  the  humbird's  viewless  wings — 
Feel'st  not  round  thy  heart  the  stirring 
Of  childhood's  half-forgotten  things  ? 

Seest  thou  the  dear  old  dwelling 
With  the  woodbine  round  the  door  ? 
Brothers,  soft !  her  breast  is  swelling 
With  the  busy  thoughts  of  yore ; 
Lowly  sing  ye,  sing  ye  mildly, 
Rouse  her  spirit  not  so  wildly, 
Lest  she  sleep  not  any  more. 
'T  is  the  pleasant  summertide, 
Open  stands  the  window  wide— 
Whose  voices,  Lady,  art  thou  drinking  ? 
Who  sings  that  best  beloved  tune 
In  a  clear  note,  rising,  sinking, 
Like  a  thrush's  song  in  June  ? 
Whose  laugh  is  that  which  rings  so  clear 
And  joyous  in  thine  eager  ear  ? 

Lower,  Brothers,  yet  more  low 
Weave  the  song  in  mazy  twines ; 
She  heareth  now  the  west  wind  blow 
At  evening  through  the  clump  of  pines ; 
O !  mournful  is  their  tune, 
As  of  a  crazed  thing 
Who,  to  herself  alone, 
Is  ever  murmuring, 

Through  the  night  and  through  the  day, 
For  something  that  hath  passed  away. 
Often,  Lady,  hast  thou  listened, 
Often  have  thy  blue  eyes  glistened. 
When  the  summer  evening  breeze 
Moaned  sadly  through  those  lonely  trees, 
Or  the  fierce  wind  from  the  north 


"LOWLY  SING  YE,   SING   YE  MILDLY, 


Song. 

Wrung  their  mournful  music  forth. 

Ever  the  river  floweth 

In  an  unbroken  stream, 

Ever  the  west  wind  bloweth, 

Murmuring  as  he  goeth, 

And  mingling  with  her  dream  ; 

Onward  still  the  river  sweepeth 

With  a  sound  of  long-agone ; 

Lowly,  Brothers,  lo !  she  weepeth, 

She  is  now  no  more  alone  ; 

Long-loved  forms  and  long-loved  faces 

Round  her  pillow  throng, 

Through  her  memory's  desert  places 

Flow  the  waters  of  our  song. 

Lady  !  if  thy  life  be  holy 

As  when  thou  wert  yet  a  child, 

Though  our  song  be  melancholy, 

It  will  stir  no  anguish  wild  ; 

For  the  soul  that  hath  lived  well, 

For  the  soul  that  child-like  is, 

There  is  quiet  in  the  spell 

That  brings  back  early  memories. 


LIFT  up  the  curtains  of  thine  eyes 
And  let  their  light  outshine! 

Let  me  adore  the  mysteries 
Of  those  mild  orbs  of  thine, 

Which  ever  queenly  calm  do  roll, 

Attuned  to  an  ordered  soul ! 


II. 

Open  thy  lips  yet  once  again 
And,  while  my  soul  doth  hush 

With  awe,  pour  forth  that  holy  strain 
Which  seemeth  me  to  gush, 

A  fount  of  music,  running  o'er 

From  thy  deep  spirit's  inmost  core ! 


Song. 

in. 

The  melody  that  dwells  in  thee 

Begets  in  me  as  well 
A  spiritual  harmony, 


123 


V 

\  r 


"OPEN  THY  LIPS  YET  ONCE  AGAIN." 

A  mild  and  blessed  spell ; 
Far,  far  above  earth's  atmosphere 
I  rise,  whene'er  thy  voice  1  hear. 


124  Gbe  Departed. 

THE  DEPARTED. 

NOT  they  alone  are  the  departed, 
Who  have  laid  them  down  to  sleep 
In  the  grave  narrow  and  lonely, 
Not  for  them  only  do  I  vigils  keep, 
Not  for  them  only  am  I  heavy-hearted, 
Not  for  them  only ! 

Many,  many,  there  are  many 
Who  no  more  are  with  me  here, 
As  cherished,  as  beloved  as  any 
Whom  I  have  seen  upon  the  bier. 
I  weep  to  think  of  those  old  faces, 
To  see  them  in  their  grief  or  mirth ; 
I  weep — for  there,  are  empty  places 
Around  my  heart's  once  crowded  hearth ; 
The  cold  ground  doth  not  cover  them, 
The  grass  hath  not  grown  over  them, 
Yet  are  they  gone  from  me  on  earth ; — 
O !  how  more  bitter  is  this  weeping, 
Than  for  those  lost  ones  who  are  sleeping 
Where  sun  will  shine  and  flowers  blow, 
Where  gentle  winds  will  whisper  low, 
And  the  stars  have  them  in  their  keeping ! 
Wherefore  from  me  who  loved  you  so, 
O !  wherefore  did  ye  go  ? 
I  have  shed  full  many  a  tear, 
I  have  wrestled  oft  in  prayer — 
But  ye  do  not  come  again ; 
How  could  anything  so  dear, 
How  could  anything  so  fair, 
Vanish  like  the  summer  rain  ? 
No,  no,  it  cannot  be, 
But  ye  are  still  with  me ! 

And  yet,  O !  where  art  thou, 
Childhood,  with  sunny  brow 
And  floating  hair  ? 
Where  art  thou  hiding  now  ? 
I  have  sought  thee  everywhere, 
All  among  the  shrubs  and  flowers 
Of  those  garden-walks  of  ours — 
Thou  art  not  there ! 
When  the  shadow  of  Night's   wings 
Hath  darkened  all  the  Earth, 


Departed. 


I  listen  to  thy  gambolings 

Beside  the  cheerful  hearth  — 

Thou  art  not  there  ! 

I  listen  to  the  far-off  bell, 

I  murmur  o'er  the  little  songs 

Which  thou  didst  love  so  well, 

Pleasant  memories  come  in  throngs 

And  mine  eyes  are  blurred  with  tears, 

But  no  glimpse  of  thee  appears  : 

Lonely  am  I  in  the  Winter,  lonely  in  the  Spring, 

Summer  and  Harvest  bring  no  trace  of  thee  — 


125 


"WHEN  THE  SHADOW  OF  NIGHT'S  WINGS 
HATH  DARKENED  ALL  THE  EARTH." 

Oh !  whither,  whither  art  thou  wandering, 
Thou  who  didst  once  so  cleave  to  me  ? 

And  Love  is  gone : — 
I  have  seen  him  come, 
I  have  seen  him,  too,  depart, 
Leaving  desolate  his  home, 
His  bright  home  in  my  heart. 
I  am  alone ! 

Cold,  cold  is  his  hearth-stone, 
Wide  open  stands  the  door ; 


126  Cbe  Departed. 

The  frolic  and  the  gentle  one 

Shall  I  see  no  more,  no  more  ? 

At  the  fount  the  bowl  is  broken, 

1  shall  drink  it  not  again, 

All  my  longing  prayers  are  spoken, 

And  felt,  ah,  woe  is  me,  in  vain ! 

Oh  childish  hopes  and  childish  fancies, 

Whither  have  ye  fled  away  ? 

I  long  for  you  in  mournful  trances, 

I  long  for  you  by  night  and  day ; 

Beautiful  thoughts  that  once  were  mine, 

Might  I  but  win  you  back  once  more. 

Might  ye  about  my  being  twine 

And  cluster  as  ye  did  of  yore ! 

O !  do  not  let  me  pray  in  vain — 

How  good  and  happy  I  should  be, 

How  free  from  every  shade  of  pain, 

If  ye  would  come  again  to  me ! 

O,  come  again!  come,  come  again! 

Hath  the  sun  forgot  its  brightness, 

Have  the  stars  forgot  to  shine, 

That  they  bring  not  their  wonted  lightness 

To  this  weary  heart  of  mine  ? 

'T  is  not  the  sun  that  shone  on  thee, 

Happy  childhood,  long  ago — 

Not  the  same  stars  silently 

Looking  on  the  same  bright  snow — 

Not  the  same  that  Love  and  I 

Together  watched  in  days  gone  by ! 

No,  not  the  same,  alas  for  me ! 

Would  God  that  those  who  early  went 
To  the  house  dark  and  low, 
For  whom  our  mourning  heads  were  bent, 
For  whom  our  steps  were  slow ; 
O  would  that  these  alone  had  left  us, 
That  Fate  of  these  alone  had  reft  us, 
Would  God  indeed  that  it  were  so ! 
Many  leaves  too  soon  must  wither, 
Many  flowers  too  soon  must  die, 
Many  bright  ones  wandering  hither, 
We  know  not  whence,  we  know  not  why, 
Like  the  leaves  and  like  the  flowers, 
Vanish,  ere  the  summer  hours, 
That  brought  them  to  us,  have  gone  by. 


127 


O  for  the  hopes  and  for  the  feelings, 
Childhood,  that  I  shared  with  thee  — 
The  high  resolves,  the  bright  revealings 
Of  the  soul's  might,  which  thou  gav'st  me, 
Gentle  Love,  woe  worth  the  day, 
Woe  worth  the  hour  when  thou  wert  born, 
Woe  worth  the  day  thou  fled'st  away  — 
A  shade  across  the  wind-waved  corn  — 
A  dewdrop  falling  from  the  leaves 
Chance-shaken  in  a  summer's  morn  ! 
Woe,  woe  is  me  !  my  sick  heart  grieves, 
Companionless  and  anguish-  worn  ! 
I  know  it  well,  our  manly  years 
Must  be  baptized  in  bitter  tears  ; 
Full  many  fountains  must  run  dry 
That  youth  has  dreamed  for  long  hours  by, 
Choked  by  convention's  siroc  blast 
Or  drifting  sands  of  many  cares  ; 
Slowly  they  leave  us  all  at  last, 
And  cease  their  flowing  unawares. 


THE  BOBOLINK. 

ANACREON  of  the  meadow, 
Drunk  with  the  joy  of  spring ! 
Beneath  the  tall  pine's  voiceful  shadow 
I  lie  and  drink  thy  jargoning ; 
My  soul  is  full  with  melodies, 
One  drop  would  overflow  it, 
And  send  the  tears  into  mine  eyes — 
But  what  carest  thou  to  know  it  ? 
Thy  heart  is  free  as  mountain  air, 
And  of  thy  lays  thou  hast  no  care, 
Scattering  them  gayly  everywhere, 
Happy,  unconscious  poet ! 

Upon  a  tuft  of  meadow  grass, 
While  thy  loved-one  tends  the  nest, 
Thou  swayest  as  the  breezes  pass, 
Unburdening  thine  o'erfull  breast 
Of  the  crowded  songs  that  fill  it, 
Just  as  joy  may  choose  to  will  it. 
Lord  of  thy  love  and  liberty, 
The  blithest  bird  of  merry  May, 


ia8  Gbe  JBobolinfc. 

Thou  turnest  thy  bright  eye  on  me, 
That  says  as  plain  as  eye  can  say — 
' '  Here  sit  we,  in  the  sunny  weather, 
I  and  my  modest  mate  together ; 
Whatever  your  wise  thoughts  may  be, 
Under  that  gloomy  old  pine-tree, 
We  do  not  value  them  a  feather." 

Now,  leaving  earth  and  me  behind, 
Thou  beatest  up  against  the  wind. 
Or,  Moating  slowly  down  before  it. 
Above  thy  grass-hid  nest  thou  flutterest 
And  thy  bridal  love-song  utterest, 
Raining  showers  of  music  o'er  it, 
Weary  never,  still  thou  trillest, 
Spring-gladsome  lays, 
As  of  moss-rimmed  water  brooks 
Murmuring  through  pebbly  nooks 
In  quiet  summer  days. 
My  heart  with  happiness  thou  fillest, 
I  seem  again  to  be  a  boy 
Watching  thee,  gay,  blithesome  lover, 
O'er  the  bending  grass-tops  hover, 
Quivering  thy  wings  for  joy. 
There  's  something  in  the  apple-blossom, 
The  greening  grass  and  bobolink's  song, 
That  wakes  again  within  my  bosom 
Feelings  which  have  slumbered  long. 
As  long,  long  years  ago  I  wandered, 
1  seem  to  wander  even  yet, 
The  hours  the  idle  school-boy  squandered. 
The  man  would  die  ere  he'd  forget. 

0  hours  that  frosty  eld  deemed  wasted, 
Nodding  his  gray  head  toward  my  books, 

1  dearer  prize  the  lore  I  tasted 

With  you,  among  the  trees  and  brooks, 

Than  all  that  I  have  gained  since  then 

From  learned  books  or  study-withered  men 

Nature,  thy  soul  was  one  with  mine, 

And,  as  a  sister  by  a  younger  brother 

Is  loved,  each  flowing  to  the  other, 

Such  love  for  me  was  thine. 

Or  wert  thou  not  more  like  a  gentle  mother 

With  sympathy  and  loving  power  to  heal, 

Against  whose  heart  my  throbbing  head  I'd  lay 


Cbe  JSoboltnfc.  129 

And  moan  my  childish  sorrows  all  away, 

Till  calm  and  holiness  would  o'er  me  steal  ? 

Was  not  the  golden  sunset  a  dear  friend  ? 

Found  I  no  kindness  in  the  silent  moon, 

And  the  green  trees,  whose  tops  did  sway  and  bend, 

Low  singing  evermore  their  pleasant  tune  ? 

Felt  I  no  heart  in  dim  and  solemn  woods — 

No  loved-one's  voice  in  lonely  solitudes  ! 


"  ABOVK  THY  GRASS-HID  NEST  THOU  FLUTTEREST." 

Yes,  yes !  unhoodwinked  then  my  spirit's  eyes, 
Blind  leaders  had  not  taught  me  to  be  wise. 

Dear  hours !  which  now  again  I  over-live, 
Hearing  and  seeing  with  the  ears  and  eyes 
Of  childhood,  ye  were  bees,  that  to  the  hive 
Of  my  young  heart  came  laden  with  rich  prize, 
Gathered  in  fields  and  woods  and  sunny  dells,  to  be 
My  spirit's  food  in  days  more  wintery. 


130 


jforgetfulness. 


Yea,  yet  again  ye  come  !  ye  come ! 
And,  like  a  child  once  more  at  home 
After  long  sojourning  in  alien  climes, 
I  lie  upon  my  mother's  breast, 
Feeling  the  blessedness  of  rest, 
And  dwelling  in  the  light  of  other  times. 

O  ye  whose  living  is  not  Life, 

Whose  dying  is  but  death, 

Long,  empty  toil  and  petty  strife, 

Rounded  with  loss  of  breath ! 

Go,  look  on  Natures's  countenance, 

Drink  in  the  blessing  of  her  glance ; 

Look  on  the  sunset,  hear  the  wind, 

The  cataract,  the  awful  thunder ; 

Go,  worship  by  the  sea ; 

Then,  and  then  only,  shall  ye  find, 

With  ever-growing  wonder, 

Man  is  not  all  in  all  to  ye ; 

Go  with  a  meek  and  humble  soul, 

Then  shall  the  scales  of  self  unroll 

From  off  your  eyes — the  weary  packs 

Drop  from  your  heavy-laden  backs ; 
And  ye  shall  see, 
With  reverent  and  hopeful  eyes, 
Glowing  with  new-born  energies, 
How  great  a  thing  it  is  to  BE ! 


FORGETFULNESS. 

THERE  is  a  haven  of  sure  rest 

From  the  loud  world's  bewildering 

stress : 

As  a  bird  dreaming  on  her  nest, 
As  dew  hid  in  a  rose's  breast, 
As  Hesper  in  the  glowing  \Vest ; 
So  the  heart  sleeps 
In  thy  calm  deeps, 
Serene  Forgetfulness ! 

'  AS,  IN  WHITK  LILY  CAVES,  A  BEK. "     No  sorrow  in  that  place  may  be, 

The  noise  of  life  grows  less  and  less : 
As  moss  far  down  within  the  sea, 
As,  in  white  lily  caves,  a  bee, 
As  life  in  a  hazv  reverie ; 


50119.  131 


So  the  heart's  wave 
In  thy  dim  cave, 
Hushes,  Forgetfulness ! 

Duty  and  care  fade  far  away : 

\Yhat  toil  may  be  we  cannot  guess : 
As  a  ship  anchored  in  the  bay, 
As  a  cloud  at  summer-noon  astray, 
As  water-blooms  in  a  breezeless  day  ; 
So,  'neath  thine  eyes, 
The  full  heart  lies, 
And  dreams,  Fcrgetfulness ! 


WHAT  reck  I  of  the  stars,  when  I 

May  gaze  into  thine  eyes, 
O'er  which  the  brown  hair  flowingly 

Is  parted  maidenwise 
From  thy  pale  forehead,  calm  and  bright, 
Over  thy  cheeks  so  rosy  white  ? 


n. 

What  care  I  for  the  red  moon-rise  ? 

Far  liefer  would  I  sit 
And  watch  the  joy  within  thine  eyes 

Gush  up  at  sight  of  it ; 
Thyself  my  queenly  moon  shall  be. 
Ruling  my  heart's  deep  tides  for  me  ? 


What  heed  I  if  the  sky  be  blue  ? 

So  are  thy  holy  eyes, 
And  bright  with  shadows  ever  new 

Of  changeful  sympathies, 
Wrhich  in  thy  soul's  unruffled  deep 
Rest  evermore,  but  never  sleep. 


132  Cbc  poet. 

THE  POET. 

He  who  hath  felt  Life's  mystery 

Press  on  him  like  thick  night. 
Whose  soul  hath  known  no  history 

But  struggling  after  light ; — 
He  who  hath  seen  dim  shapes  arise 

In  the  soundless  depths  of  soul, 
Which  gaze  on  him  with  meaning  eyes 

Full  of  the  mighty  whole, 


"  AND  STARTING  FROM  HIS  RKSTLKSS  BED." 

Yet  will  no  word  of  healing  speak, 

Although  he  pray  night-long, 
Oh  help  me,  save  me !  I  am  weak, 

And  ye  are  wondrous  strong!" 
Who  in  the  midnight  dark  and  deep, 

Hath  felt  a  voice  of  might 
Come  echoing  through  the  halls  of  sleep 

From  the  lone  heart  of  Night, 


fflowets.  133 


And  starting  from  his  restless  bed, 

Hath  watched  and  wept  to  know 
What  meant  that  oracle  of  dread 

That  stirred  his  being  so ; 
He  who  hath  felt  how  strong  and  great 

This  God-like  soul  of  man, 
And  looked  full  in  the  eyes  of  Fate, 

Since  Life  and  Thought  began ; 
The  armor  of  whose  moveless  trust 

Knoweth  no  spot  of  weakness, 
Who  hath  trod  fear  into  the  dust 

Beneath  the  feet  of  meekness ; — 
He  who  hath  calmly  born  his  cross, 

Knowing  himself  the  king 
Of  time,  nor  counted  it  a  loss 

To  learn  by  suffering; — 
And  who  hath  worshipped  woman  still 

With  a  pure  soul  and  lowly, 
Nor  ever  hath  in  deed  or  will 

Profaned  her  temple  holy — 
He  is  the  Poet,  him  unto 

The  gift  of  song  is  given, 
Whose  life  is  lofty,  strong,  and  true, 

Who  never  fell  from  Heaven ; 
He  is  the  Poet,  from  his  lips 

To  live  forevermore, 
Majestical  as  full-sailed  ships, 

The  words  of  Wisdom  pour. 


FLOWERS. 

1  Haile  be  thou,  holie  Herbe, 

Growing  on  the  ground, 
All  in  the  mount  of  Calvary 

First  wert  thou  found  : 
Thou  art  good  for  manie  a  sore, 

Thou  healest  manie  a  wound, 
In  the  name  of  sweete  Jesus 

I  take  thee  from  the  ground." 

Ancient  Charm-verse 


When,  from  a  pleasant  ramble,  home 
Fresh-stored  with  quiet  thoughts,  I  come, 


dfloxvers. 

I  pluck  some  wayside  flower 
And  press  it  in  the  choicest  nook 
Of  a  much-loved  and  oft-read  book 
And  when  upon  its  leaves  1  look 
In  a  less  happy  hour, 
Dear  memory  bears  me  far  away 
Unto  her  fairy  bovver, 
And  on  her  breast  my  head  I  lay, 
While  in  her  motherly,  sweet  strain, 
She  sings  me  gently  back  again 
To  by-gone  feelings,  until  they 
Seem  children  born  of  yesterday. 


Yes,  many  a  story  of  past  hours 
I  read  in  these  dear  withered  flowers, 
And  once  again  I  seem  to  be 
Lying  beneath  the  old  oak-tree, 
And  looking  up  into  the  sky, 
Through  thick  leaves  rifted  titfully, 
Lulled  by  the  rustling  of  the  vine, 
Or  the  faint  low  of  far-off  kme; 
And  once  again  I  seem 
To  watch  the  whirling  bubbles  flee. 
Through  shade  and  gleam  alternately, 
Down  the  vine-bowered  stream  ; 
Or  'neath  the  odorous  linden-trees, 
When  summer  twilight  lingers  long, 
To  hear  the  flowing  of  the  breeze 
And  unseen  insects'  slumberous  song, 
That  mingle  into  one  and  seem 
Like  dim  murmurs  of  a  dream  ; 
Fair  faces,  too,  I  seem  to  see, 
Smiling  from  pleasant  eyes  at  me, 
And  voices  sweet  I  hear, 
That  like  remembered  melody, 
Flow  through  my  spirit's  ear. 


A  poem  every  flower  is, 
And  every  leaf  a  line, 
And  with  delicious  memories 
They  fill  this  heart  of  mine  : 
No  living  blossoms  are  so  clear 


"  LYING  BENEATH  THE  OLD  OAK  TREE, 
AND  LOOKING  UP  INTO  THE  SKY." 


136 


As  these  dead  relics  treasured  here  ; 

One  tells  of  love,  of  friendship  one, 

Love's  quiet  after-sunset  time, 

When  the  all-dazzling  light  is  gone, 

And  with  the  soul's  low  vesper  -chime, 

O'er  half  its  heaven  doth  out-flow 

A  holy  calm  and  steady  glow. 

Some  are  gay  feast-songs,  some  are  dirges 

In  some  a  joy  with  sorrow  merges  ! 

One  sings  the  shadowed  woods,  and  one  the  roar 

Of  ocean's  everlasting  surges, 

Tumbling  upon  the  beach's  hard-beat  floor, 

Or  sliding  backward  from  the  shore 

To  meet  the  landward  waves  and  slowly  plunge  once 

more. 

O  flowers  of  grace,  I  bless  ye  all 
By  the  dear  faces  ye  recall  ! 


Upon  the  bank's  of  Life's  deep  streams 
Full  many  a  flower  groweth, 
Which  with  a  wondrous  fragrance  teems, 
And  in  the  silent  water  gleams, 
And  trembles  as  the  water  floweth ; 
Many  a  one  the  wave  upteareth, 
Washing  ever  the  roots  away, 
And  far  upon  its  bosom  beareth, 
To  bloom  no  more  in  Youth's  glad  May, 
As  farther  on  the  river  runs, 
Flowing  more  deep  and  strong, 
Only  a  few  pale,  scattered  ones 
Are  seen  the  dreary  banks  along ; 
And  where  those  flowers  do  not  grow, 
The  river  floweth  dark  and  chill, 
Its  voice  is  sad,  and  with  its  flow 
Mingles  ever  a  sense  of  ill ; 
Then,  Poet,  thou  who  gather  dost 
Of  Life's  blest  flowers  the  brightest, 
O,  take  good  heed  they  be  not  lost 
While  with  the  angry  flood  thou  lightest ! 

v. 

In  the  cool  grottos  of  the  soul, 
Whence  flows  thought's  crystal  river, 
Whence  songs  of  joy  forever  roll 


flowers.  137 

To  Him  who  is  the  Giver — 

There  store  thou  them,  where  fresh  and  green 

Their  leaves  and  blossoms  may  be  seen, 

A  spring  of  joy  that  faileth  never ; 

There  store  thou  them,  and  they  shall  be 

A  blessing  and  a  peace  to  thee, 

And  in  their  youth  and  purity 

Thou  shalt  be  young  forever ! 

Then,  with  their  fragrance  rich  and  rare, 

Thy  living  shall  be  rife, 

Strength  shall  be  thine  thy  cross  to  bear, 

And  they  shall  be  a  chaplet  fair, 

Breathing  a  pure  and  holy  air, 

To  crown  thy  holy  life. 

VI. 

O  Poet !  above  all  men  blest, 
Take  heed  that  thus  thou  store  them; 
Love,  Hope,  and  Faith  shall  ever  rest, 
Sweet  birds  (upon  how  sweet  a  nest !) 
Watchfully  brooding  o'er  them. 
And  from  those  flowers  of  Paradise 
Scatter  thou  many  a  blessed  seed, 
\Vherefrom  an  offspring  may  arise 
To  cheer  the  hearts  and  light  the  eyes 
Of  after-voyagers  in  their  need. 
They  shall  not  fall  on  stony  ground, 
But,  yielding  all  their  hundred-fold, 
Shall  shed  a  peacefulness  around, 
Whose  strengthening  joy  may  not  be  told, 
So  shall  thy  name  be  blest  of  all, 
And  thy  remembrance  never  die ; 
For  of  that  seed  shall  surely  fall 
In  the  fair  garden  of  Eternity, 
Exult  then  in  the  nobleness 
Of  this  thy  work  so  holy, 
Yet  be  not  thou  one  jot  the  less 
Humble  and  meek  and  lowly. 
But  let  thine  exultation  be 
The  reverence  of  a  bended  knee ; 
And  by  thy  life  a  poem  write, 
Built  strongly  day  by  day— 
And  on  the  rock  of  Truth  and  Right 
Its  deep  foundations  lay. 


138  Cbe  lover. 

VII. 

It  is  thy  DUTY!     Guard  it  well! 

For  unto  thee  hath  much  been  given, 

And  thou  canst  make  this  life  a  Hell, 

Or  Jacob's-ladder  up  to  Heaven, 

Let  not  thy  baptism  in  Life's  wave 

Make  thee  like  him  whom  Homer  sings- 

A  sleeper  in  a  living  grave, 

Callous  and  hard  to  outward  things ; 

But  open  all  thy  soul  and  sense 

To  every  blessed  influence 

That  from  the  heart  of  Nature  springs : 

Then  shall  thy  Life-flowers  be  to  thee, 

When  thy  best  years  are  told, 

As  much  as  these  have  been  to  me — 

Yea,  more,  a  thousand-fold! 


THE  LOVER. 


Go  roam  the  world  from  East  to  West. 

Search  every  land  beneath  the  sky, 

You  cannot  find  a  man  so  blest, 

A  king  so  powerful  as  I, 

Though  you  should  seek  eternally. 

II. 

For  I  a  gentle  lover  be, 
Sitting  at  my  loved-one's  side ; 
She  giveth  her  whole  soul  to  me 
Without  a  wish  or  thought  of  pride. 
And  she  shall  be  my  cherished  bride, 


No  show  of  gaudiness  hath  she, 
She  doth  not  flash  with  jewels  rare ; 
In  beautiful  simplicity 
She  weareth  leafy  garlands  fair, 
Or  modest  flowers  in  her  hair. 


Sometimes  she  dons  a  robe  of  green, 
Sometimes  a  robe  of  snowv  white, 


Hover. 


139 


"  SOMETIMES  SHE  DONS  A  ROBE  OF  GREEN, 
SOMETIMES   A   KOBE  OF  SNOWY  WHITE." 

But,  in  whatever  garb  she's  seen, 
It  seems  most  beautiful  and  right, 
And  is  the  loveliest  to  my  sight. 


V, 


Not  I  her  lover  am  alone, 
Yet  unto  all  she  doth  suffice, 
None  jealous  is,  and  every  one 
Reads  love  and  truth  within  her  eyes, 
And  deemeth  her  his  own  dear  prize. 


VI. 


And  so  thou  art,  Eternal  Nature ! 
Yes,  bride  of  Heaven,  so  thou  art ; 
Thou  wholly  lovest  every  creature, 
Giving  to  each  no  stinted  part, 
But  filling  every  peaceful  heart. 


140  Co  JE.  TJQ.  0. 

TO  K.  \v.  c;. 

"  DEAR  Cliild  !  dear  happy  (iirl !  if  thou  appear 
Heedless — untouched  with  a\ve  or  serious  thought, 
Thy  nature  is  not  therefore  less  divine : 
Thou  liest  in  Abraham's  bosom  all  the  year; 
And  worship's!  at  the  Temple's  inner  shrine, 
God  being  with  thee  when  we  know  it  not." 

—  M'ordsworth. 

As  through  a  strip  of  sunny  light 

A  white  dove  Mashes  swiftly  on, 

So  suddenly  before  my  sight 

Thou  gleamed'st  a  moment  and  wert  gone ; 

And  yet  I  long  shall  bear  in  mind 

The  pleasant  thoughts  thou  left'st  behind, 

Thou  madest  me  happy  with  thine  eyes, 
And  happy  with  thine  open  smile, 
And,  as  I  write,  sweet  memories 
Come  thronging  round  me  all  the  while : 
Thou  madest  me  happy  with  thine  eyes — 
And  gentle  feelings  long  forgot 
Looked  up  and  oped  their  eyes 
kike  violets  when  they  see  a  spot 
Of  summer  in  the  skies. 

Around  thy  playful  lips  did  glitter 
Heat-lightnings  of  a  girlish  scorn ; 
Harmless  they  were,  for  nothing  bitter 
In  thy  dear  heart  was  ever  born — 
That  merry  heart  that  could  not  lie 
Within  its  warm  nest  quietly, 
But  ever  from  each  full,  dark  eye 
Was  looking  kindly  night  and  morn. 

There  was  an  archness  in  thine  eyes, 
Born  of  the  gentlest  mockeries, 
And  thy  light  laughter  rang  as  clear 
As  water-drops  I  loved  to  hear 
In  days  of  boyhood,  as  they  fell 
Tinkling  far  down  the  dim,  still  well ; 
And  with  its  sound  come  back  once  more 
The  feelings  of  my  early  years, 
And  half  aloud  I  murmured  o'er— 


I   BOUND  A   LARCH-TWIG  ROUND  WITH   FLOWERS, 
WHICH  THOU  DIDST  TWINE  AMONG  THY  HAIR." 


Usabcl. 

Sure  I  have  heard  that  voice  before, 
It  is  so  pleasant  in  mine  ears." 

Whenever  thou  didst  look  on  me 
I  thought  of  merry  birds, 
And  something  of  spring's  melody 
Came  to  me  in  thy  words ; 
Thy  thoughts  did  dance  and  bound  along 
Like  happy  children  in  their  play. 
Whose  hearts  run  over  into  song 
For  gladness  of  the  summer's  day ; 
And  mine  grew  dizzy  with  the  sight, 
Still  feeling  lighter  and  more  light, 
Till,  joining  hands,  they  whirled  away, 
As  blithe  and  merrily  as  they. 

I  bound  a  larch-twig  round  with  flowers, 
Which  thou  didst  twine  among  thy  hair, 
And  gladsome  were  the  few,  short  hours 
When  I  was  with  thee  there : 
So  now  that  thou  art  far  away, 
Safe-nestled  in  thy  warmer  clime. 
In  memory  of  a  happy  day 
I  twine  this  simple  wreath  of  rhyme. 

Dost  mind  how  she,  whom  thou  dost  love 
More  than  in  light  words  may  be  said, 
A  coronal  of  amaranth  wove 
About  thy  duly-sobered  head. 
Which  kept  itself  a  moment  still 
That  she  might  have  her  gentle  will  ? 
Thy  childlike  grace  and  purity 
O  keep  forevermore, 
And  as  thou  art,  still  strive  to  be, 
That  on  the  farther  shore 
Of  Time's  dark  waters  ye  may  meet, 
And  she  may  twine  around  thy  brow 
A  wreath  of  those  bright  flowers  that  grow 
Where  blessed  angels  set  their  feet ! 


ISABEL. 

As  the  leaf  upon  the  tree, 
Fluttering,  gleaming  constantly, 
Such  a  lightsome  thing  was  she, 


Ifsabel.  143 

My  gay  and  gentle  Isabel ! 

Her  heart  was  fed  with  love-springs  sweet, 

And  in  her  face  you'd  see  it  beat 

To  hear  the  sound  of  welcome  feet— 

And  were  not  mine  so,  Isabel  ? 

She  knew  it  not,  but  she  was  fair, 
And  like  a  moonbeam  was  her  hair, 
That  falls  where  flowing  ripples  are 
In  summer  evenings,  Isabel ! 
Her  heart  and  tongue  were  scarce  apart, 
Unwittingly  her  lips  would  part, 
And  love  come  gushing  from  her  heart. 
The  woman's  heart  of  Isabel. 

So  pure  her  flesh-garb,  and  like  dew, 
That  in  her  features  glimmered  through 
Each  working  of  her  spirit  true, 
In  wondrous  beauty,  Isabel ! 
A  sunbeam  struggling  through  thick  leaves, 
A  reaper's  song  mid  yellow  sheaves, 
Less  gladsome  were  ; — my  spirit  grieves 
To  think  of  thee,  mild  Isabel ! 

I  know  not  when  I  loved  thee  first ; 
Not  loving,  I  had  been  accurst, 
Yet,  having  loved,  my  heart  will  burst, 
Longing  for  thee,  dear  Isabel ! 
With  silent  tears  my  cheeks  are  wet, 
I  would  be  calm,  I  would  forget, 
But  thy  blue  eyes  gaze  on  me  yet, 
When  stars  have  risen,  Isabel. 

The  winds  mourn  for  thee,  Isabel, 
The  flowers  expect  thee  in  the  dell, 
Thy  gentle  spirit  loved  them  well, 
And  I  for  thy  sake,  Isabel ! 
The  sunsets  seem  less  lovely  now 
Than  when,  leaf  checkered,  on  thy  brow 
They  fell  as  lovingly  as  thou 
Lingered'st  till  moon-rise,  Isabel ! 

At  dead  of  night  I  seem  to  see 
Thy  fair,  pale  features  constantly 
Upturned  in  silent  prayer  for  me, 
O'er  moveless  clasped  hands,  Isabel ! 


144 


dfcusic. 

I  call  thee,  thou  dost  not  reply ; 
The  stars  gleam  coldly  on  thine  eye, 
As  like  a  dream  thou  flittest  by, 
And  leav'st  me  weeping,  Isabel ! 


THY  FAIR,   1'ALE  FEATURES  CONSTANTLY 
UPTURNED  IN  SILENT  PRAYER  FOR  ME." 


MUSIC. 
I. 

I  SEEM  to  lie  with  drooping  eyes, 
Dreaming  sweet  dreams, 

Half  longings  and  half  memories 
In  woods  where  streams 


/fcustc.  145 

With  trembling  shades  and  whirling  gleams, 

Many  and  bright, 

In  song  and  light, 

Are  ever,  ever  flowing, 

While  the  wind,  if  we  list  to  the  rustling  grass, 
Which  numbers  his  footsteps  as  they  pass, 

Seems  scarcely  to  be  blowing; 
And  the  far-heard  voice  of  Spring, 
From  sunny  slopes  comes  wandering. 
Calling  the  violets  from  the  sleep, 
That  bound  them  under  the  snow-drifts  deep, 
To  open  their  childlike,  asking  eyes 
On  the  new  summer's  paradise, 
And  mingled  with  the  gurgling  waters — 

As  the  dreamy  witchery 
Of  Acheloiis  silver-voiced  daughters 

Rose  and  fell  with  the  heaving  sea, 
Whose  great  heart  swelled  with  ecstasy  - 
The  song  of  many  a  floating  bird, 

Winding  through  the  rifted  trees. 
Is  dreamily  half-heard — 

A  sister  stream  of  melodies 
Rippled  by  the  flutterings 
Of  rapture-quivered  wings. 


II. 

And  now  beside  a  cataract 
I  lie,  and  through  my  soul, 
From  over  me  and  under, 
The  never-ceasing  thunder 
Arousingly  doth  roll ; 
Through  the  darkness  all  compact, 
Through  the  trackless  sea  of  gloom, 
Sad  and  deep  I  hear  it  boom ; 
At  intervals  the  cloud  is  cracked 
And  a  livid  flash  doth  hiss 

Downward  from  its  floating  home, 
Lighting  up  the  precipice 

And  the  never-resting  foam 
With  a  dim  and  ghastly  glare, 
\Yhich,  for  a  heart-beat,  in  the  air, 

Shows  the  sweeping  shrouds 

Of  the  midnight  clouds 
And  their  wildlv-scattered  hair. 


146  /fcueic. 

in. 

Now  listening  to  a  woman's  tone, 
In  a  wood  I  sit  alone — 
Alone  because  our  souls  are  one ; 
All  around  my  heart  it  flows, 
Lulling  me  in  deep  repose ; 
I  fear  to  speak,  I  fear  to  move, 


AND  A   LIVID   FLASH    DOTH   HISS. 

Lest  I  should  break  the  spell  I  love — 
Low  and  gentle,  calm  and  clear, 
Into  my  inmost  soul  it  goes, 

As  if  my  brother  dear, 

Who  is  no  longer  here, 

Had  bended  from  the  sky 

And  murmured  in  mv  ear 


rtbusfc.  14? 


A  strain  of  that  high  harmony, 
Which  they  may  sing  alone 
Who  worship  round  the  throne. 


Now  in  a  fairy  boat. 

On  the  bright  waves  of  song, 
Full  merrily  I  float, 

Merrily  float  along ; 

My  helm  is  veered,  I  care  not  how, 

My  white  sail  bellies  over  me, 
And  bright  as  gold  the  ripples  be 
That  plash  beneath  the  bow ; 

Before,  behind, 

They  feel  the  wind, 

And  they  are  dancing  joyously — 
While  faintly  heard,  along  the  far-off  shore 
The  surf  goes  plunging  with  a  lingering  roar . 
Or  anchored  in  a  shadowy  cove, 

Entranced  with  harmonies, 

Slowly  I  sink  and  rise 
As  the  slow  waves  of  music  move. 


Now  softly  dashing, 

Bubbling,  plashing, 

Mazy,  dreamy, 

Faint  and  streamy, 

Ripples  into  ripples  melt, 

Not  so  strongly  heard  as  felt ; 

Now  rapid  and  quick, 

While  the  heart  beats  thick, 

The  music's  silver  wavelets  crowd, 

Distinct  and  clear,  but  never  loud ; 

And  now  all  solemnly  and  slow, 

In  mild,  deep  tones  they  warble  low. 

Like  the  glad  song  of  angels,  when 

They  sang  good  will  and  peace  to  men  ; 

Now  faintly  heard  and  far, 

As  if  the  spirit's  ears 
Had  caught  the  anthem  of  a  star 

Chanting  with  his  brother-spheres 
In  the  midnight  dark  and  deep, 
When  the  body  is  asleep 
And  wondrous  shadows  pour  in  streams 


148  Song. 

From  the  twofold  gate  of  dreams ; 
Now  onward  roll  the  billows,  swelling 
With  a  tempest-sound  of  might, 
As  of  voices  doom  foretelling 
To  the  silent  ear  of  Night ; 
And  now  a  mingled  ecstasy 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  it  is; — 
O !  who  may  tell  the  agony 
Of  rapture  such  as  this  ? 

I  have  drunk  of  the  drink  of  immortals, 

I  have  drunk  of  the  life-giving  wine, 
And  now  I  may  pass  the  bright  portals 

That  open  into  a  realm  divine ! 
I  have  drunk  it  through  mine  ears 

In  the  ecstasy  of  song, 
When  mine  eyes  would  fill  with  tears 

That  its  life  were  not  more  long ; 
I  have  drunk  it  through  mine  eyes 

In  beauty's  every  shape, 
And  now  around  my  soul  it  lies, 

No  juice  of  earthly  grape ! 
Wings !  wings  are  given  to  me  ; 

I  can  flutter,  I  can  rise, 
Like  a  new  life  gushing  through  me  ; 

Sweep  the  heavenly  harmonies ! 


SONG. 

O !  I  MUST  look  on  that  sweet  face  once  more  before  I  die; 
(iod  grant  that  it  may  lighten  up  with  joy  when  I  draw  high ; 
God  grant  that  she  may  look  on  me  as  kindly  as  she  seems 
In   the   long   night,    the   restless    night,   i'  the   sunny  land  of 
dreams ! 

I   hoped,  I  thought,  she  loved  me  once,  and  yet,  I  know  not 

why. 

There  is  a  coldness  in  her  speech,  and  a  coldness  in  her  eye, 
Something  that  in  another's  look  would  not  seem  cold  to  me. 
And  yet  like  ice  I  feel  it  chill  the  heart  of  memory. 

She  does  not  come  to  greet  me  so  frankly  as  she  did, 
And  in  her  utmost  openness  I  feel  there  's  something  hid ; 
She  almost  seems  to  shun  me,  as  if  she  thought  that  I 
Might  win  her  gentle  heart  again  to  feelings  long  gone  by. 


Song. 


149 


I  sought  the  first  spring-buds  for  her,  the  fairest  and  the  best, 
And   she   wore  them  for    their   loveliness  upon   her    spotless 

breast, 

The  blood-root  and  the  violet,  the  frail  anemone, 
She  wore  them,  and  alas !  I  deemed  it  was  for  love  of  me ! 


"MY   FACE    I    COVKU   WITH    MY    HANDS,    AM)    HITTKKI.Y   I   \VKKP." 


As  flowers  in  a  darksome  place  stretch  forward  to  the  light, 
So  to  the  memory  of  her  I  turn  by  day  and  night  ; 
As  flowers  in  a  darksome  place  grow  thin  and  pale  and  wan, 
So  is  it  wih  my  darkened  heart,  now  that  her  light  is  gone. 


iso  flantbe. 

The  thousand  little  things  that  love  doth  treasure  up  for  aye, 
And  brood  upon  with  moistened  eyes  when  she  that's  lovd  's 

away, 
The  word,  the  look,  the  smile,  the  blush,  the  ribbon  that  she 

wore, 
Each  day  they  grow  more  dear  to  me,  and  pain  me  more  and 

more. 

My  face  I  cover  with  my  hands,  and  bitterly  I  weep, 

That  the  quick-gathering  sands  of  life  should  choke  a  love  so 

deep, 
And  that  the  stream,  so  pure  and  bright,  must  turn  it  from  its 

track, 
Or  to  the  heart-springs,    whence  it   rose,    roll    its    full  waters 

back! 

As  calm  as  doth  the  lily  float  close  by  the  lakelet's  brim, 

So  calm  and  spotless,  down  time's  stream,  her  peaceful  days 

did  swim, 
And  I  had  longed,  and   dreamed,  and  prayed,  that  closely  by 

her  side, 
Down  to  a  haven  still  and  sure,  my  happy  life  might  glide. 

But  now,  alas !  those  golden  days  of  youth  and  hope  are  o'er, 
And  I  must  dream  those  dreams  of  joy,  those  guiltless  dreams 

no  more ; 

Yet  there  is  something  in  my  heart  that  whispers  ceaselessly, 
' '  Would   God  that  1    might  see  that  face  once  more  before  I 

die!" 


IANTHE. 
I. 

THERE  is  a  light  within  her  eyes, 
Like  gleams  of  wandering  fire-flies ; 
From  light  to  shade  it  leaps  and  moves 
Whenever  in  her  soul  arise 
The  holy  shapes  of  things  she  loves ; 
Fitful  it  shines  and  changes  ever, 
Like  star-lit  ripples  on  a  river. 
Or  summer  sunshine  on  the  eaves 
Of  silver-trembling  poplar  leaves, 
Where  the  lingering  dew-drops  quiver. 
I  may  not  tell  the  blessedness 
Her  mild  eyes  send  to  mine, 


flantbe.  151 

The  sunset-tinted  haziness 

Of  their  mysterious  shine, 

The  dim  and  holy  mournfulness 

Of  their  mellow  light  divine ; 

The  shadow  of  the  lashes  lie 

Over  them  so  lovingly, 

That  they  seem  to  melt  away 

In  a  doubtful  twilight-gray, 

While  I  watch  the  stars  arise 

In  the  evening  of  her  eyes. 

I  love  it,  yet  I  almost  dread 

To  think  what  it  foreshadoweth  ; 

And,  when  I  muse  how  I  have  read 

That  such  strange  light  betokened  death 

Instead  of  fire-fly  gleams,  I  see 

Wild  corpse-lights  gliding  waveringly. 

II. 

With  wayward  thoughts  her  eyes  are  bright, 
Like  shiftings  of  the  northern-light, 
Hither,  thither,  swiftly  glance  they, 
In  a  mazy  twining  dance  they, 
Like  ripply  lights  the  sunshine  weaves, 
Thrown  backward  from  a  shaken  nook. 
Below  some  tumbling  water-brook 
On  the  o'erarching  platan-leaves, 
All  through  her  glowing  face  they  flit, 
And  rest  in  their  deep  dwelling-place, 
Those  fathomless  blue  eyes  of  hers, 
Till,  from  her  burning  soul  re-lit, 
While  her  upheaving  bosom  stirs, 
They  stream  again  across  her  face 
And  with  such  hope  and  glory  fill  it. 
Death  could  not  have  the  heart  to  chill  it. 
Vet  when  their  wild  light  fades  again, 
I  feel  a  sudden  sense  of  pain, 
As  if,  while  yet  her  eyes  were  gleaming, 
And  like  a  shower  of  sun-lit  rain 
Bright  fancies  from  her  face  were  streaming, 
Her  trembling  soul  might  flit  away 
As  swift  and  suddenly  as  they. 


A  wild,  inspired  earnestness 
Her  inmost  being  fills, 


152  flantbc. 

And  eager  self-forgetfulness, 
That  speaks  not  what  it  wills. 

But  what  unto  her  soul  is  given, 

A  living  oracle  from  Heaven, 

Which  scarcely  in  her  breast  is  born 

When  on  her  trembling  lips  it  thrills, 

And,  like  a  burst  of  golden  skies 

Through  storm-clouds  on  a  sudden  torn, 

Like  a  glory  of  the  morn, 

Beams  marvellously  from  her  eyes. 

And  then,  like  a  Spring-swollen  river, 
Roll  the  deep  waves  of  her  full-hearted  thought 

Crested  with  sun-lit  spray, 

Her  wild  lips  curve  and  quiver, 
And  my  rapt  soul,  on  the  strong  tide  upcaught, 

Unwittingly  is  borne  away, 

Lulled  by  a  dreamful  music  ever, 

Far — through  the  solemn  twilight-gray 

Of  hoary  woods — through  valleys  green 

Which  the  trailing  vine  embowers, 
And  where  the  purple-clustered  grapes  are  seen 
Deep-glowing  through  rich  clumps  of  waving  rlowers- 

Now  over  foaming  rapids  swept 

And  with  maddening  rapture  shook  — 
Now  gliding  where  the  water-plants  have  slept 

For  ages  in  a  moss-rimmed  nook — 

Enwoven  by  a  wild-eyed  band 
Of  earth-forgetting  dreams, 

I  float  to  a  delicious  land 

By  a  sunset  heaven  spanned, 
And  musical  with  streams ; — 

Around,  the  calm,  majestic  forms 
And  god-like  eyes  of  early  Greece  I  see, 

Or  listen,  till  my  spirit  warms 

To  songs  of  courtly  chivalry, 
Or  weep,  unmindful  if  my  tears  be  seen, 
For  the  meek,  suffering  love  of  poor  Undine. 


Her  thoughts  are  never  memories, 
But  ever  changeful,  ever  new, 
Fresh  and  beautiful  as  dew 
That  in  a  dell  at  noontide  lies, 
Or,  at  the  close  of  summer  day, 
The  pleasant  breath  of  new-mown  hay : 


flantbe.  153 


Swiftly  they  come  and  pass 
As  golden  birds  across  the  sun. 
As  light-gleams  on  tall  meadow-grass 
Which  the  wind  just  breathes  upon. 
And  when  she  speaks,  her  eyes  I  see 

Down-gushing  through  their  silken  lattices, 
Like  stars  that  quiver  tremblingly 
Through  leafy  branches  of  the  trees, 
And  her  pale  cheeks  do  flush  and  glow 
With  speaking  flashes  bright  and  rare 

As  crimson  North-lights  on  new-fallen  snow, 
From  out  the  veiling  of  her  hair — 

Her  careless  hair  that  scatters  down 
On  either  side  her  eyes, 

A  waterfall  leaf-tinged  with  brown 
And  lit  with  the  sunrise. 

v. 

When  first  I  saw  her,  not  of  earth, 
But  heavenly  both  in  grief  and  mirth, 
I  thought  her ;  she  did  seem 
As  fair  and  full  of  mystery, 
As  bodiless,  as  forms  we  see 
In  the  rememberings  of  a  dream ; 
A  moon-lit  mist,  a  strange,  dim  light 
Circled  her  spirit  from  my  sight ; — 
Each  day  more  beautiful  she  grew, 

More  earthly  every  day. 
Yet  that  mysterious,  moony  hue 

Faded  not  all  away ; 
She  has  a  sister's  sympathy 
With  all  the  wanderers  of  the  sky 
But  most  I've  seen  her  bosom  stir 

When  moonlight  round  her  fell, 
For  the  mild  moon  it  loveth  her, 

She  loveth  it  as  well, 
And  of  their  love  perchance  this  grace 
Was  born  into  her  wondrous  face. 
I  cannot  tell  how  it  may  be, 
For  both,  methinks,  can  scarce  be  true, 
Still  as  she  earthly  grew  to  me, 
She  grew  more  heavenly  too ; 

She  seems  one  born  in  Heaven 
With  earthly  feelings, 

For,  while  unto  her  soul  are  given 


Uantbc. 

More  pure  revealings 

Of  holiest  love  and  truth, 
Yet  is  the  mildness  of  her  eyes 
Made  up  of  quickest  sympathies, 

Of  kindliness  and  ruth  ; 
So,  though  some  shade  of  awe  doth  stir 
Our  souls  for  one  so  far  above  us, 
We  feel  secure  that  she  will  love  us, 
And  cannot  keep  from  loving  her. 
She  is  a  poem,  which  to  me 
In  speech  and  look  is  written  bright, 
And  to  her  life's  rich  harmony 
Doth  ever  sing  itself  aright ; 
Dear,  glorious  creature ! 
With  eyes  so  dewy  bright, 

And  tenderest  feeling 

Itself  revealing 
In  every  look  and  feature, 
W'elcome  as  a  homestead  light 
To  one  long-wandering  in  a  clouded  night; 
O  lovelier  for  her  woman's  weakness, 

Which  yet  is  strongly  mailed 
In  armor  of  courageous  meekness 

And  faith  that  never  failed ! 


Early  and  late,  at  her  soul's  gate, 
Sits  Chastity  in  warderwise, 
No  thoughts  unchallenged,  small  or  great, 
Goes  thence  into  her  eyes ; 
Nor  may  a  low,  unworthy  thought 
Beyond  that  virgin  warder  win, 
Nor  one,  whose  password  is  not  "  ought," 
May  go  without  or  enter  in, 
I  call  her,  seeing  those  pure  eyes, 
The  Eve  of  a  new  Paradise, 
Which  she  by  gentle  word  and  deed, 
And  look  no  less,  doth  still  create 
About  her,  for  her  great  thoughts  breed 
A  calm  that  lifts  us  from  our  fallen  state, 
And  makes  us  while  with  her  both  good  and  great 
Nor  is  their  memory  wanting  in  our  need : 
With  stronger  loving,  every  hour, 
Turneth  my  heart  to  this  frail  flower 
Which  thoughtless  of  the  world,  hath  grown 


Xove's  Bltar.  155 

To  beauty  and  meek  gentleness, 
Here  in  a  fair  world  of  its  own — 
By  woman's  instinct  trained  alone — 
A  lily  fair  which  God  did  bless, 
And  which  from  Nature's  heart  did  draw 
Love,  wisdom,  peace,  and  Heaven's  perfect  law. 


LOVE'S   ALTAR. 


I  BUILT  an  altar  in  my  soul, 

I  builded  it  to  one  alone ; 

And  ever  silently  I  stole, 

In  happy  days  of  long  agone, 

To  make  rich  offerings  to  that  ONE 


'T  was  garlanded  with  purest  thought, 
And  crowned  with  fancy's  flowers  bright, 
With  choicest  gems  't  was  all  inwrought 
Of  truth  and  feeling ;  in  my  sight 
It  seemed  a  spot  or  cloudless  light. 

in. 

Yet  when  I  made  my  offering  there, 
Like  Cain's,  the  incense  would  not  rise ; 
Back  on  my  heart  down-sank  the  prayer, 
And  altar-stone  and  sacrifice 
Grew  hateful  in  my  tear-dimmed  eyes. 


O'er-grown  with  age's  mosses  green, 
The  little  altar  firmly  stands; 
It  is  not,  as  it  once  hath  been, 
A  selfish  shrine; — these  time-taught  hands 
Bring  incense  now  from  many  lands. 

v. 

Knowledge  doth  only  widen  love ; 
The  stream,  that  lone  and  narrow  rose, 
Doth,  deepening  ever,  onward  move, 
And  with  an  even  current  flows 
Calmer  and  calmer  to  the  close. 


156  fky  Hove. 

VI. 

The  love,  that  in  those  early  days 
Girt  round  my  spirit  like  a  wall, 
Hath  faded  like  a  morning  haze, 
And  flames,  unpent  by  self's  mean  thrall, 
Rise  clearly  to  the  perfect  ALL. 


MY  LOVE. 
I. 

NOT  as  all  other  women  are 
Is  she  that  to  my  soul  is  dear; 
Her  glorious  fancies  come  from  far 
Beneath  the  silver  evening-star, 
And  yet  her  heart  is  ever  near. 


Great  feelings  hath  she  of  her  own 
Which  lesser  souls  may  never  know ; 
God  giveth  them  to  her  alone, 
And  sweet  they  are  as  any  tone 
Wherewith  the  wind  may  choose  to  blow. 

III. 

Yet  in  herself  she  dwelleth  not, 
Although  no  home  were  half  so  fair ; 
No  simplest  duty  is  forgot, 
Life  hath  no  dim  and  lonely  spot 
That  doth  not  in  her  sunshine  share. 


She  doeth  little  kindnesses, 
Which  most  leave  undone,  or  despise, 
For  naught  that  sets  one  heart  at  ease, 
And  giveth  happiness  or  peace, 
Is  low-esteemed  in  her  eyes. 


She  hath  no  scorn  of  common  things 
And,  though  she  seem  of  other  birth, 
Round  us  her  heart  entwines  and  clings, 
And  patiently  she  folds  her  wings 
To  tread  the  humble  paths  of  earth. 


Xove.  157 

VI. 


Blessing  she  is :  God  made  her  so, 
And  deeds  of  week-day  holiness 
Fall  from  her  noiseless  as  the  snow, 
Nor  hath  she  ever  chanced  to  know 
That  aught  were  easier  than  to  bless. 

VII. 

She  is  most  fair,  and  thereunto 
Her  life  doth  rightly  harmonize; 
Feeling  or  thought  that  was  not  true 
Ne'er  made  less  beautiful  the  blue 
Unclouded  heaven  of  her  eyes. 

VIII. 

On  Nature  she  doth  muse  and  brood 
With  such  a  still  and  love-clear  eye — 
She  is  so  gentle  and  so  good — 
The  very  flowers  in  the  wood 
Do  bless  her  with  their  sympathy. 


She  is  a  woman :  one  in  whom 
The  spring-time  of  her  childish  years 
Hath  never  lost  its  fresh  perfume, 
Though  knowing  well  that  life  hath  room 
For  many  blights  and  many  tears. 


And  youth  in  her  a  home  will  find, 
Where  he  may  dwell  eternally ; 
Her  soul  is  not  of  that  weak  kind 
Which  better  love  the  life  behind 
Than  that  which  is,  or  is  to  be. 

XI. 

I  love  her  with  a  love  as  still 
As  a  broad  river's  peaceful  might, 
\Vhich,  by  high  tower  and  lowly  mill, 
Goes  wandering  at  its  own  will. 
And  yet  doth  ever  flow  aright. 


158 

XII. 

And,  on  its  full,  deep  breast  serene. 
Like  quiet  isles  my  duties  lie ; 
It  flows  around  them  and  between, 
And  makes  them  fresh  and  fair  and  green 
Sweet  homes  wherein  to  live  and  die. 


WITH   A  PRESSED   FLOWER. 

THIS  little  flower  from  afar 
Hath  come  from  other  lands  to  thine; 
Kor,  once,  its  white  and  drooping  star 
Could  see  its  shadow  in  the   Rhine. 

Perchance  some  fair-haired  German  maid 
Hath  plucked  one  from  the  self-same  stalk, 
And  numbered  over,  half  afraid, 
Its  petals  in  her  evening  walk. 

He  loves  me,  loves  me  not,"  she  cries: 
He  loves  me  more  than  earth  or  Heaven," 
And  then  glad  tears  have  filled  her  eyes 
To  find  the  number  was  uneven. 

So,  Love,  my  heart  doth  wander  forth 
To  farthest  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  search  the  fairest  spots  of  earth 
To  find  sweet  flowers  of  thought  for  thee. 

A  type  this  tiny  blossom  is 
Of  what  my  heart  doth  every  day, 
Seeking  for  pleasant  fantasies 
To  brood  upon  when  them  'rt  away. 

And  thou  must  count  its  petals  well, 
Because  it  is  a  gift  from  me ; 
And  the  last  one  of  all  shall  tell 
Something  I've  often  told  to  thee. 

But  here  at  home,  where  we  were  born, 
Thou  wilt  find  flowers  just  as  true, 
Down  bending  every  summer  morn 
With  freshness  of  New  England  dew. 


?kl*  V   rfv 

i ^j- sr*' 

'       -^iw 


HE  LOVES  ME,    LOVES  ME  NOT,'  SHE  CRIES. 


160  flmparttalft£. 

For  Nature,  ever  right  in  love, 
Hath  given  them  the  same  sweet  tongue, 
Whether  with  German  skies  above, 
Or  here  our  granite  rocks  among. 


IMPARTIALITY. 
I. 

I  CANNOT  say  a  scene  is  fair 
Because  it  is  beloved  of  thee, 
But  1  shall  love  to  linger  there, 
For  sake  of  thy  dear  memory ; 
I  would  not  be  so  coldly  just 
As  to  love  only  what  I  must. 

n. 

I  cannot  say  a  thought  is  good 
Because  thou  foundest  joy  in  it ; 
Each  soul  must  choose  its  proper  food 
Which  Nature  hath  decreed  most  fit ; 
But  I  shall  ever  deem  it  so 
Because  it  made  thy  heart  o'erflow. 

in. 

I  love  thee  for  that  thou  art  fair; 
And  that  thy  spirit  joys  in  aught 
Createth  a  new  beauty  there, 
With  thine  own  dearest  image  fraught ; 
And  love,  for  others'  sake  that  springs, 
(Hves  half  their  charm  to  lovely  things. 


BELLEROPHON. 

DEDICATED    TO    MY    FRIEND,   JOHN    F.     HEATH. 
I. 

I  FEEI,  the  bandages  unroll 

That  bound  my  inward  seeing ; 
Freed  are  the  bright  wings  of  my  soul, 

Types  of  my  God-like  being; 
High  thoughts  are  swelling  in  my  heart. 

And  rushing  through  my  brain  ; 
May  I  never  more  lose  part 


JBelleropbon. 


161 


In  my  soul's  realm  again! 
All  things  fair,  where'er  they  be, 
In  earth  or  air,  in  sky  or  sea, 
I  have  loved  them  all,  and  taken 
All  within  my  throbbing  breast; 
No  more  my  spirit  can  be  shaken 
From  its  calm  and  kingly  rest ! 
Love  hath  shed  its  light  around  me, 
Love  hath  pierced  the  shades  that  bound  me ; 
Mine  eyes  are  opened,  I  can  see 
The  universe's  mystery, 

The  mighty  heart  and  core 

Of  After  and  Before 
I  see,  and  I  am  weak  no  more ! 

II. 

Upward !  upward  evermore, 
To  Heaven's  open  gate  I  soar ! 
Little  thoughts  are  far  behind  me, 
Which  when  custom  weaves  together, 
All  the  nobler  man  can  tether — 
Cobwebs  now  no  more  can  bind  me ! 
Now  fold  thy  wings  a  little  while, 

My  tranced  soul,  and  lie 
At  rest  on  this  Calypso-isle 

That  floats  in  mellow  sky, 
A  thousand  isles  with  gentle 

motion 

Rock  upon  the  sunset  ocean  ; 
A  thousand  isles  of  thousand  hues. 
How  bright!  how  beautiful !  how 

rare! 

Into  my  spirit  they  infuse 
A  purer,  a  diviner  air ; 
The  earth  is  growing  dimmer, 
And  now  the  last  faint  glimmer 

Hath  faded  from  the  hill ; 
But  in  my  higher  atmosphere 
The  sunlight  streameth  red  and 


clear, 
Fringing  the  islets  still ; — 

Love  lifts  us  to  the  sunlight, 
Though  the  whole  world  would  be  dark ; 
Love,  wide  Love,  is  the  one  light, 
All  else  is  but  a  fading  spark ; 


AND  NOV.'  THE  LAST  FAINT  GLIMMKK 
HATH  FADED  FROM  THE  HILL." 


162  3j$cllcropbon. 

Love  is  the  nectar  which  doth  fill 

Our  soul's  cup  even  to  overflowing, 

And,  warming  heart,  and  thought,  and  will, 

Doth  lie  within  us  mildly  glowing, 

From  its  own  centre  raying  out 

Beauty  and  Truth  on  all  without. 


Each  on  his  golden  throne, 
Full  royally,  alone, 
I  see  the  stars  above  me, 
With  sceptre  and  with  diadem ; 
Mildly  they  look  down  and  love  me, 
For  I  have  ever  yet  loved  them. 
I  see  their  ever-sleepless  eyes 
Watching  the  growth  of  destinies ; 
Calm,  sedate. 
The  eyes  of  Fate, 
They  wink  not,  nor  do  roll, 
But  search  the  depths  of  soul — 
And  in  those  mighty  depths  they  see 
The  germs  of  all  Futurity, 
Waiting  but  the  fitting  time 
To  burst  and  ripen  into  prime. 
As  in  the  womb  of  mother  Earth 
The  seeds  of  plants  and  forests  lie 
Age  upon  age  and  never  die — 
So  in  the  souls  of  all  men  wait, 
Undyingly  the  seeds  of  Fate: 
Chance  breaks  the  clod  and  forth  they  spring, 
Filling  blind  men  with  wondering. 
Eternal  stars !  with  holy  awe, 
As  if  a  present  God  I  saw, 
I  look  into  those  mighty  eyes 
And  see  great  destinies  arise, 
As  in  those  of  mortal  men 
Feelings  glow  and  fade  again ! 
All  things  below,  all  things  above, 
Are  open  to  the  eyes  of  Love. 


Of  Knowledge  Love  is  master-key, 
Knowledge  of  Beauty ;  passing  dear 
Is  each  to  each,  and  mutually 
Each  one  doth  make  the  other  clear ; 


JBelleropbon.  163 


Beauty  is  Love,  and  what  we  love 
Straightway  is  beautiful, 
So  is  the  circle  round  and  full, 
And  so  Love  doth  live  and  move 

And  have  his  being, 
Finding  his  proper  food 

By  sure  inseeing, 
In  all  things  pure  and  good, 
Which  he  at  will  doth  cull, 
Like  a  joyous  butterfly 
Hiving  in  the  sunny  bowers 
Of  the  soul's  fairest  flowers, 
Or,  between  the  earth  and  sky, 
Wandering  at  liberty 
For  happy,  happy  hours  ! 


"  SHEDDING   A   MILD  AND  GOLDEN    L1U1IT 
ON  THE  SHADOWY   FACE  OF  NIGHT." 


The  thoughts  of  Love  are  Poesy, 
As  this  fair  earth  and  all  we  see 
Are  the  thoughts  of  Deity — 
And  Love  is  ours  by  our  birthright ! 
He  hath  cleared  mine  inward  sight, 
Glorious  shapes  with  glorious  eyes 
Round  about  my  spirit  glance, 
Shedding  a  mild  and  golden  light 
On  the  shadowy  face  of  Night ; 
To  unearthly  melodies, 
Hand  in  hand,  they  weave  their  dance, 
While  a  deep,  ambrosial  lustre 

From  their  rounded  limbs  doth  shine, 


164  Something  "Natural. 

Through  many  a  rich  and  golden  cluster 

Of  streaming  hair  divine. 
In  our  gross  and  earthly  hours 
We  cannot  see  the  Love-given  powers 
Which  ever  round  the  soul  await 

To  do  its  sovereign  will, 
When,  in  its  moments  calm  and  still, 
It  re-assumes  its  royal  state, 
Nor  longer  sits  with  eyes  downcast, 
A  beggar,  dreaming  of  the  past, 
At  its  own  palace-gate. 


I  too  am  a  Maker  and  a  Poet ; 
Through  my  whole  soul  1  feel  it  and  know  it ; 
My  veins  are  fired  with  ecstasy ! 

All-mother  Earth 

Did  ne'er  give  birth 

To  one  who  shall  be  matched  with  me ; 
The  lustre  of  my  coronal 
Shall  cast  a  dimness  over  all. — 
Alas !  alas '  what  have  I  spoken  ? 
My  strong,  my  eagle  wings  are  broken, 
And  back  again  to  earth  I  fall ! 


SOMETHING  NATURAL. 
I. 

WHEN  first  I  saw  thy  soul-deep  eyes, 
My  heart  yearned  to  thee  instantly, 
Strange  longing  in  my  soul  did  rise; 
I  cannot  tell  the  reason  why, 
But  I  must  love  thee  till  I  die. 

II. 

The  sight  of  thee  hath  well-nigh  grown 
As  needful  to  me  as  the  light ; 
I  am  unrestful  when  alone, 
And  my  heart  doth  not  beat  aright 
Except  it  dwell  within  thy  sight. 

in. 

And  yet — and  yet — O  selfish  love ! 
I  am  not  happy  even  with  thee ; 


Sirens.  165 

I  see  thee  in  thy  brightness  move, 

And  cannot  well  contented  be, 

Save  thou  should'st  shine  alone  for  me. 

IV. 

We  should  love  beauty  even  as  flowers — 
For  all,  't  is  said,  they  bud  and  blow, 
They  are  the  world's  as  well  as  ours — 
But  thou — alas  !     God  made  thee  grow 
So  fair,  I  cannot  love  thee  so ! 


THE  SIRENS. 

THE  sea  is  lonely,  the  sea  is  dreary, 

The  sea  is  restless  and  uneasy ; 
Thou  seekest  quiet,  thou  art  weary. 
Wandering  thou  knowest  not  whither ; — 
Our  little  isle  is  green  and  breezy, 
Come  and  rest  thee !     O  come  hither, 
Come  to  this  peaceful  home  of  ours, 

Where  evermore 

The  low  west-wind  creeps  panting  up  the  shore 
To  be  at  rest  among  the  flowers ; 
Full  of  rest,  the  green  moss  lifts, 

As  the  dark  waves  of  the  sea 
Draw  in  and  out  of  rocky  rifts 

Calling  solemnly  to  thee, 
With  voices  deep  and  hollow — 

To  the  shore 
Follow !     O  follow ! 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore ! 

For  evermore ! 

Look  how  the  gray,  old  Ocean 
From  the  depths  of  his  heart  rejoices, 
Heaving  with  a  gentle,  motion, 
When  he  hears  our  restful  voices ; 
List  how  he  sings  in  an  undertone, 
Chiming  with  our  melody; 
And  all  sweet  sounds  of  earth  and  air 
Melt  into  one  low  voice  alone, 
That  murmurs  over  the  weary  sea — 
And  seems  to  sing  from  everywhere — 
Here  mayest  thou  harbor  peacefully, 
Here  mayest  thou  rest  from  the  aching  oar ; 


tlbe  Sirens.  167 

Turn  thy  curved  prow  ashore 
And  in  our  green  isle  rest  for  evermore ! 

For  evermore ! 

And  Echo  half  wakes  in  the  wooded  hill, 
And,  to  her  heart  so  calm  and  deep, 
Murmurs  over  in  her  sleep, 
Doubtfully  pausing  and  murmuring  still, 

"  Evermore!" 
Thus,  on  Life's  weary  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  low  and  clear, 
Ever  singing  longingly. 

Is  it  not  better  here  to  be, 
Than  to  be  toiling  late  and  soon  ? 
In  the  dreary  night  to  see 
Nothing  but  the  blood-red  moon 
Go  up  and  down  into  the  sea ; 

Or,  in  the  loneliness  of  day, 
To  see  the  still  seals  only, 

Solemnly  lift  their  faces  gray, 
Making  it  yet  more  lonely  ? 

Is  it  not  better,  than  to  hear 

Only  the  sliding  of  the  wave 

Beneath  the  plank,  and  feel  so  near 

A  cold  and  lonely  grave, 

A  restless  grave,  where  thou  shall  lie 
Even  in  death  unquielly? 
Look  down  benealh  ihy  wave-worn  bark, 

Lean  over  ihe  side  and  see 
The  leaden  eye  of  ihe  side-long  shark 
Upturned  patienlly 

Ever  waiting  ihere  for  ihee  : 
Look  down  and  see  those  shapeless  forms, 

Which  ever  keep  iheir  dreamless  sleep 

Far  down  wilhin  ihe  gloomy  deep 
And  only  stir  themselves  in  storms, 
Rising  like  islands  from  beneath, 
And  snorting  through  the  angry  spray, 
As  the  frail  vessel  perisheth 
In  ihe  whirls  of  iheir  unwieldly  play; 

Look  down  !     Look  down ! 
Upon  ihe  seaweed,  slimy  and  dark, 
That  waves  its  arms  so  lank  and  brown, 


:68 


Sirens. 


Beckoning  for  thee ! 

Look  down  beneath  thy  wave-worn  bark 
Into  the  cold  depth  of  the  sea! 
Look  down !     Look  down ! 
Thus,  on  Life's  lonely  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sad  from  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  full  of  fear 
Ever  singing  drearfully 


THAT  THY  KEEL  WILL  NOT  GRATE 
AS  IT  TOUCHES  THE  LAND." 


Here  all  is  pleasant  as  a  dream ; 
The  wind  scarce  shaketh  down  the  dew, 
The  green  grass  floweth  like  a  stream 
Into  the  ocean's  blue  : 
Listen !     O  listen  ! 

Here  is  a  gush  of  many  streams, 

A  song  of  many  birds, 
And  every  wish  and  longing  seems 
Lulled  to  a  numbered  How  of 
words — 

Listen !     O  listen ! 
Here  ever  hum  the  golden  bees 

Underneath  full-blossomed  trees, 
At  once  with  glowing  fruit  and  flower 

crowned ; 

The  sand  is  so  smooth,  the  yellow  sand, 
That  thy  keel  will  not  grate,  as  it  touches 

the  land ; 

All  around,  with  a  slumberous  sound, 
The  singing  waves  slide  up  the  strand, 
And  there,  where  the  smooth  wet  pebbles 

be, 

The  waters  gurgle  longingly, 
As  if  they  fain  would  seek  the  shore, 
To  be  at  rest  from  the  ceaseless  roar, 
To  be  at  rest  for  evermore — 
For  evermore. 

Thus  on  Life's  gloomy  sea, 
Heareth  the  marinere 
Voices  sweet,  far  and  near, 
Ever  singing  in  his  ear, 
Here  is  rest  and  peace  for  thee!" 


NANTASKET,  July,  1840. 


a  Reeling.  169 

A  FEELING. 

THE  flowers  and  the  grass  to  me 

Are  eloquent  reproachfully ; 

For  would  they  wave  so  pleasantly 

Or  look  so  fresh  and  fair, 

If  a  man,  cunning,  hollow,  mean, 

Or  one  in  anywise  unclean, 

Were  looking  on  them  there  ? 

No ;  he  hath  grown  so  foolish-wise 
He  cannot  see  with  childhood's  eyes; 
He  hath  forgot  that  purity 
And  lowliness  which  are  the  key 
Of  Nature's  mysteries; 
No ;  he  hath  wandered  off  so  long 
From  his  own  place  of  birth, 
That  he  hath  lost  his  mother-tongue, 
And,  like  one  come  from  far-off  lands, 
Forgetting  and  forgot,  he  stands 
Beside  his  mother's  hearth. 


THE  BEGGAR. 

A  BEGGAR  through  the  world  am  I, 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by ; — 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  script  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity ! 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Rounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me — 

That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow, 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 
And  firm-set  roots  unmoved  be. 

Some  of  thy  stern,  unyielding  might, 
Enduring  still  through  day  and  night 
Rude  tempest-shock  and  withering  blight — 
That  1  may  keep  at  bay 
The  changeful  April  sky  of  chance 
And  the  strong  tide  of  circumstance- — 
Give  me  old  granite  gray. 


1 70  Sercna&e. 

Some  of  thy  mournfulness  serene, 
Some  of  thy  never-dying  green, 
Put  in  this  script  of  mine — 
That  griefs  may  fall  like  snowflakes  light, 
And  deck  me  in  a  robe  of  white 
Ready  to  be  an  angel  bright — 
O  sweetly-mournful  pine. 

A  little  of  thy  merriment, 
Of  thy  sparkling,  light  content, 
Give  me  my  cheerful  brook — 
That  i  may  still  be  full  of  glee 
And  gladsomeness,  where'er  I  be, 
Though  fickle  fate  hath  prisoned  me 
In  some  neglected  nook. 

Ye  have  been  very  kind  and  good 
To  me,  since  I've  been  in  the  wood ; 
Ye  have  gone  nigh  to  fill  my  heart, 
But  good-by,  kind  friends,  every  one, 
,  I  've  far  to  go  ere  set  of  sun ; 

Of  all  good  things  I  would  have  part, 
The  day  was  high  ere  I  could  start, 
And  so  my  journey  's  scarce  begun. 

Heaven  help  me!  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet ! 
Some  of  thy  modesty, 
That  flowers  here  as  well,  unseen, 
As  if  before  the  world  thou  'dst  been, 
O  give,  to  strengthen  me. 


SERENADE. 

FROM  the  close-shut  windows  gleams  no  spark, 
The  night  is  chilly,  the  night  is  dark, 
The  poplars  shiver,  the  pine-trees  moan, 
My  hair  by  the  autumn  breeze  is  blown, 
Under  thy  window  I  sing  alone, 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe!  alone! 

The  darkness  is  pressing  coldly  around, 
The  windows  shake  with  a  lonely  sound, 
The  stars  are  hid  and  the  night  is  drear, 
The  heart  of  silence  throbs  in  thine  ear, 


"  UNDER  THY  WINDOW  I  KING  ALOXE. 


172  Urcne. 

In  thy  chamber  thou  sittest  alone. 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe!  alone! 

The  world  is  happy,  the  world  is  wide, 
Kind  hearts  are  beating  on  every  side ; 
Ah,  why  should  we  lie  so  curled 
Alone  in  the  shell  of  this  great  world  ? 
Why  should  we  any  more  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 

O !  't  is  a  bitter  and  dreary  word, 
The  saddest  by  man's  ear  ever  heard  ; 
We  each  are  young,  we  each  have  a  heart. 
Why  stand  we  ever  coldly  apart  ? 
Must  we  forever,  then,  be  alone  ? 
Alone,  alone,  ah  woe  !  alone  ! 


IRENE. 

HERS  is  a  spirit  deep  and  crystal-clear; 
Calmly  beneath  her  earnest  face  it  lies, 
Eree  without  boldness,  meek  without  a  fear, 
Quicker  to  look  than  speak  its  sympathies; 
Ear  down  into  her  large  and  patient  eyes 
I  gaze,  deep-drinking  of  the  infinite, 
As,  in  the  mid-watch  of  a  clear,  still  night, 
I  look  into  the  fathomless  blue  skies. 

So  circled  lives  she  with  Love's  holy  light, 
That  from  the  shade  of  self  she  walketh  free ; 
The  garden  of  her  soul  still  keepeth  she 
An  Eden  where  the  snake  did  never  enter ; 
She  hath  a  natural,  wise  sincerity, 
A  simple  truthfulness,  and  these  have  lent  her 
A  dignity  as  moveless  as  the  centre; 
So  that  no  influence  of  earth  can  stir 
Her  steadfast  courage,  or  can  take  away 
The  holy  peacefulness,  which,  night  and  day, 
Unto  her  queenly  soul  doth  minister. 

Most  gentle  is  she ;  her  large  charity 
(An  all  unwitting,  childlike  gift  in  her) 
Not  freer  is  to  give  than  meek  to  bear ; 
And,  though  herself  not  unacquaint  with  care, 
Hath  in  her  heart  wide  room  for  all  that  be — 


flrene.  173 

Her  heart  that  hath  no  secrets  of  its  own, 
But  open  is  as  eglantine  full-blown, 

Cloudless  forever  is  her  brow  serene, 

Speaking  calm  hope  and  trust  within  her,  whence 

Welleth  a  noiseless  spring  of  patience 

That  keepeth  all  her  life  so  fresh,  so  green 

And  full  of  holiness,  that  every  look, 

The  greatness  of  her  woman's  soul  revealing, 

Unto  me  bringeth  blessing,  and  a  feeling 

As  when  I  read  in  God's  own  holy  book. 

A  graciousness  in  giving  that  doth  make 
The  small'st  gift  greatest,  and  a  sense  most  meek 
Of  worthiness,  that  doth  not  fear  to  take 
From  others,  but  which  always  fears  to  speak 
Its  thanks  in  utterance,  for  the  giver's  sake ; — 
The  deep  religion  of  a  thankful  heart, 
Which  rests  instinctively  with  Heaven's  law 
With  a  full  peace,  that  never  can  depart 
From  its  own  steadfastness ; — a  holy  awe 
For  holy  things,  not  those  which  men  call  holy, 
But  such  as  are  revealed  to  the  eyes 
Of  a  true  woman's  soul  bent  down  and  lowly 
Before  the  face  of  daily  mysteries; — 
A  love  that  blossoms  soon,  but  ripens  slowly 
To  the  full  goldenness  of  fruitful  prime. 
Enduring  with  a  firmness  that  defies 
All  shallow  tricks  of  circumstance  and  time, 
By  a  sure  insight  knowing  where  to  cling, 
And  where  it  clingeth  never  withering — 
These  are  Irene's  dowry — which  no  fate 
Can  shake  from  their  serene,  deep-buildcd  state. 

In-seeing  sympathy  is  hers,  which  chasteneth 
No  less  than  loveth,  scorning  to  be  bound 
With  fear  of  blame,  and  yet  which  ever  hasteneth 
To  pour  the  balm  of  kind  looks  on  the  wound, 
If  they  be  wounds  which  such  sweet  teaching  makes, 
Giving  itself  a  pang  for  others'  sakes; 
No  want  of  faith,  that  chills  with  side-long  eye, 
Hath  she;  no  jealousy,  no  Levite  pride 
That  passeth  by  upon  the  other  side ; 
For  in  her  soul  there  never  dwelt  a  lie, 
Right  from  the  hand  of  God  her  spirit  came 
Unstained,  and  she  hath  ne'er  forgotten  whence, 


174  £l>c  lost  CbilD. 

It  came,  nor  wandered  far  from  thence, 
But  laboreth  to  keep  her  still  the  same, 
Near  to  her  place  of  birth,  that  she  may  not 
Soil  her  white  raiment  with  an  earthly  spot. 

Yet  sets  she  not  her  soul  so  steadily 
Above,  that  she  forgets  her  ties  to  earth, 
But  her  whole  thought  would  almost  seem  to  be 
How  to  make  glad  one  lowly  human  hearth; 
For  with  a  gentle  courage  she  doth  strive 
In  thought  and  word  and  feeling  so  to  live 
As  to  make  earth  next  Heaven  ;  and  her  heart 
Herein  doth  show  its  most  exceeding  worth, 
That,  bearing  in  our  frailty  her  just  part. 
She  hath  not  shrunk  from  evils  of  this  life, 
But  hath  gone  calmly  forth  into  the  strife, 
And  all  its  sins  and  sorrows  hath  withstood 
With  lofty  strength  of  patient  womanhood  ; 
For  this  I  love  her  great  soul  more  than  all, 
That,  being  bound,  like  us,  with  earthly  thrall. 
She  walks  so  bright  and  Heaven-wise  therein — 
Too  wise,  too  meek,  too  womanly  to  sin. 

Exceeding  pleasant  to  mine  eyes  is  she; 
Like  a  lone  star  through  riven  storm-clouds  seen 
By  sailors,  tempest-tost  upon  the  sea, 
Telling  of  rest  and  peaceful  heavens  nigh, 
Unto  my  soul  her  star-like  soul  hath  been, 
Her  sight  as  full  of  hope  and  calm  to  me; — 
For  she  unto  herself  hath  builded  high 
A  home  serene,  wherein  to  lay  her  head, 
Earth's  noblest  thing — a  Woman  perfected. 


THE   LOST  CHILD. 


I  WANDERED  down  the  sunny  glade 
And  ever  mused,  my  love,  of  thee; 

My  thoughts,  like  little  children,  played. 
As  gayly  and  as  guilelessly. 


If  any  chanced  to  go  astray, 

Moaning  in  fear  of  coming  harms, 


Gburcb.  175 


Hope  brought  the  wanderer  back  alway, 
Safe  nestled  in  her  snowy  arms. 


in. 


From  that  soft  nest  the  happy  one 
Looked  up  at  me  and  calmly  smiled ; 

Its  hair  shone  golden  in  the  sun, 
And  made  it  seem  a  heavenly  child. 


Dear  Hope's  blue  eyes  smiled  mildly  down, 
And  blest  it  with  a  love  so  deep, 

That,  like  a  nursling  of  her  own, 
It  clasped  her  neck  and  fell  asleep. 


THE  CHURCH, 
i. 

I  I.OVF,  the  rites  of  England's  church 

I  love  to  hear  and  see 
The  priest  and  people  reading  slow 

The  solemn  Litany ; 
I  love  to  hear  the  glorious  swell 

Of  chanted  psalm  and  prayer, 
And  the  deep  organ's  bursting  heart, 

Throb  through  the  shivering  air. 

ii. 

Chants,  that  a  thousand  years  have  hcarc 

I  love  to  hear  again, 
For  visions  of  the  olden  time 

Are  wakened  by  the  strain  ; 
With  gorgeous  hues  the  window-glass 

Seems  suddenly  to  glow, 
And  rich  and  red  the  streams  of -light 

Down  through  the  chancel  flow. 

in. 

And  then  I  murmur,   "  Surely  God 

Delighteth  here  to  dwell; 
This  is  the  temple  of  his  Son 

Whom  he  doth  love  so  well ;  " 


"  THE  PUIEST  AND  PEOPLE  READING  SLOW 
THE  SOLEMN  LITANY." 


177 


But,  when  I  hear  the  creed  which  saith, 

This  church  alone  is  his, 
I  feel  within  my  soul  that  he 

Hath  purer  shrines  than  this. 

IV. 

For  His  is  not  the  builded  church, 

Nor  organ-shaken  dome  ; 
In  everything  that  lovely  is 

He  loves  and  hath  his  home  ; 
And  most  in  soul  that  loveth  well 

All  things  which  he  hath  made, 
Knowing  no  creed  but  simple  faith 

That  may  not  be  gainsaid. 


His  church  is  universal  Love, 

And  whoso  dwells  therein 
Shall  need  no  customed  sacrifice 

To  wash  away  his  sin  ; 
And  music  in  its  aisles  shall  swell, 

Of  lives  upright  and  true, 
Sweet  as  dreamed  sounds  of  angel-harps 
Down-quivering  through  the  blue. 


They  shall  not  ask  a  litany, 

The  souls  that  worship  there, 
But  every  look  shall  be  a  hymn, 

And  every  word  a  prayer ; 
Their  service  shall  be  written  bright 

In  calm  and  holy  eyes, 
And  every  day  from  fragrant  hearts 

Fit  incense  shall  arise. 


THE  UNLOVELY. 

THE  pretty  things  that  others  wear 
Look  strange  and  out  of  place  on  me, 
I  never  seem  dressed  tastefully, 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 


178  Cbe  'dnlovelg. 

And,  when  I  would  most  pleasing  seem, 
And  deck  myself  with  joyful  care, 
I  find  it  is  an  idle  dream, 
Because  I  am  not  fair. 

If  I  put  roses  in  my  hair. 
They  bloom  as  if  in  mockery ; 
Nature  denies  her  sympathy, 

Because  I  am  not  fair; 
Alas!  I  have  a  warm,  true  heart, 
But  when  I  show  it  people  stare ; 
I  must  forever  dwell  apart, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

I  am  least  happy  being  where 
The  hearts  of  others  are  most  light, 
And  strive  to  keep  me  out  of  sight, 

Because  I  am  not  fair; 
The  glad  ones  often  give  a  glance, 
As  I  am  sitting  lonely  there. 
That  asks  me  why  I  do  not  dancv- 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

And  if  to  smile  on  them  I  dare, 
For  that  my  heart  with  love  runs  o'er. 
They  say:   "  What  is  she  laughing  for  ? 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 
Love  scorned  or  misinterpreted— 
It  is  the  hardest  thing  to  bear; 
I  often  wish  that  I  were  dead. 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

In  joy  or  grief  I  must  not  share, 
For  neither  smiles  nor  tears  on  me 
Will  ever  look  becomingly. 

Because  I  am  not  fair; 
Whole  days  I  sit  alone  and  cry, 
And  in  my  grave  I  wish  I  were-  - 
Yet  none  will  weep  me  if  I  die, 

Because  I  am  not  fair. 

My  grave  will  be  so  lone  and  bare, 
I  fear  to  think  of  those  dark  hours, 
For  none  will  plant  it  o'er  with  flowers, 

Because  I  am  not  fair ; 


THE  GLAD  ONES  OFTEN  OIVE  A  GLANCE, 
AS  I  AM  SITTING  LONELY  THERE." 


i8o 


They  will  not  in  the  summer  come 
And  speak  kind  words  above  me  there  ; 
To  me  the  grave  will  be  no  home, 
Because  I  am  not  fair. 


LOVE-SO  NG. 

NEARER  to  thy  mother-heart, 
Simple  Nature,  press  me, 
Let  me  know  thee  as  thou  art, 
Fill  my  soul  and  bless  me! 
I  have  loved  thee  long  and  well, 
I  have  loved  thee  heartily ; 
Shall  I  never  with  thee  dwell, 
Never  be  at  one  with  thee  ? 

Inward,  inward  to  thy  heart, 
Kindly  Nature,  take  me, 
Lovely  even  as  thou  art. 
Full  of  loving  make  me! 
Thou  knowest  naught  of  dead-cold  forms 
Knovvest  naught  of  littleness, 
Lifeful  Truth  thy  being  warms, 
Majesty  and  earnestness. 

Homeward,  homeward  to  thy  heart, 
Dearest  Nature,  call  me ; 
Let  no  halfness,  no  mean  part, 
Any  longer  thrall  me ! 
I  will  be  thy  lover  true, 
Will  be  a  faithful  soul. 
Then  circle  me,  then  look  me  through, 
Fill  me  with  the  mighty  Whole. 


SONG. 

ALL  things  are  sad  :— 
I  go  and  ask  of  Memory, 
That  she  tell  sweet  tales  to  me 

To  make  me  glad ; 
And  she  takes  me  by  the  hand, 

Leadeth  to  old  places, 

Showeth  the  old  faces 
In  her  hazy  mirage-land ; 


Song.  181 


O,  her  voice  is  sweet  and  low, 
And  her  eyes  are  fresh  to  mine 

As  the  dew 

Gleaming  through 
The  half-unfolded  eglantine, 
Long  ago,  long  ago ! 
But  I  feel  that  I  am  only 
Yet  more  sad,  and  yet  more  lonely ! 

Then  I  turn  to  blue-eyed  Hope, 
And  beg  of  her  that  she  will  ope 
Her  golden  gates  for  me ; 
She  is  fair  and  full  of  grace, 
But  she  hath  the  form  and  face 
Of  her  mother  Memory ; 
Clear  as  air  her  glad  voice  ringeth 
Joyous  are  the  songs  she  singeth, 


"SCATTERING  MY  WAY  WITH  FLOWERS." 

Yet  I  hear  them  mournfully ; — 

They  are  songs  her  mother  taught  her, 

Crooning  to  her  infant  daughter, 

As  she  lay  upon  her  knee. 

Many  little  ones  she  bore  me, 

Woe  is  me !  in  by-gone  hours. 

Who  danced  along  and  sang  before  me. 

Scattering  my  way  with  flowers ; 

One  by  one 

They  are  gone, 

And  their  silent  graves  are  seen, 
Shining  fresh  with  mosses  green, 
Where  the  rising  sunbeams  slope 
O'er  the  dewy  land  of  Hope. 

But,  when  sweet  Memory  faileth, 
And  Hope  looks  strange  and  cold ; 


H   Xcv>e=S>ream. 

When  youth  no  more  availeth, 
And  Grief  grows  over  bold  ; — 
When  softest  winds  are  dreary, 
And  summer  sunlight  weary, 
And  sweetest  things  uncheery 

We  know  not  why : — 
When  the  crown  of  our  desires 
Weighs  upon  the  brow  and  tires, 

And  we  would  die, 
Die  for,  ah !  we  know  not  what, 
Something  we  seem  to  have  forgot, 
Something  we  had,  and  now  have  not  ; 
When  the  present  is  a  weight 
And  the  future  seems  our  foe, 
And  with  shrinking  eyes  we  wait, 
As  one  who  dreads  a  sudden  blow 
In  the  dark,  he  knows  not  whence; — 
When  Love  at  last  his  bright  eye  closes 
And  the  bloom  upon  his  face, 
That  lends  him  such  a  living  grace, 
Is  a  shadow  from  the  roses 
Wherewith  we  have  decked  his  bier, 
Because  he  once  was  passing  dear ; — 
When  we  feel  a  leaden  sense 
Of  nothingness  and  impotence, 

Till  we  grow  mad — 
Then  the  body  saith, 
"  There's  but  one  true  faith; 

All  things  are  sad  !" 


A  LOVE-DREAM. 

PLEASANT  thoughts  come  wandering. 
When  thou  art  far,  from  thee  to  me ; 
On  their  silvery  wings  they  bring 
A  very  peaceful  ecstasy, 
A  feeling  of  eternal  spring; 
So  that  Winter  half  forgets 
Everything  but  that  thou  art, 
And,  in  his  bewildered  heart, 
Dreameth  of  the  Violets, 
Or  those  bluer  flowers  that  ope, 
Flowers  of  steadfast  love  and  hope, 
Watered  by  the  living  wells, 

Of  memories  dear,  and  dearer  prophecies, 


183 


Where  young  spring  forever  dwells 
In  the  sunshine  of  thine  eyes. 
I  have  most  holy  dreams  of  thee, 

All  night  I  have  such  dreams  ; 
And  when  I  wake,  reality 

No  whit  the  darker  seems  ; 
Through  the  twin  gates  of  Hope  and  Memory 
They  pour  in  crystal  streams 
From  out  an  angel's  calmed  eyes, 
Who,  from  twilight  till  sunrise, 
Far  away  in  the  upper  deep, 
Poised  upon  his  shining  wings, 
Over  us  his  watch  doth  keep, 
And,  as  he  watcheth,  ever  sings. 

Through  the  still  night  I  hear  him  sing, 

Down-looking  on  our  sleep  ; 
I  hear  his  clear,  clear  harp-strings  ring, 
And  as  the  golden  notes  take  wing, 
Gently  downward  hovering, 

For  very  joy  I  weep  ; 
He  singeth  songs  of  holy  Love, 
That  quiver  through  the  depths  afar, 
Where  the  blessed  spirits  are, 
And  lingeringly  from  above 
Shower  till  the  morning  star 
His  silver  shield  hath  buckled  on 
And  sentinels  the  dawn  alone, 
Quivering  his  gleamy  spear 
Though  the  dusky  atmosphere. 

Almost,  my  love,  I  fear  the  morn, 
When  that  blessed  voice  shall  cease, 
Lest  it  should  leave  me  quite  forlorn, 
Stript  of  my  snowy  robe  of  peace  ; 
And  yet  the  bright  reality 
Is  fairer  than  all  dreams  can  be, 
For,  through  my  spirit,  all  day  long 
Ring  echoes  of  that  angel-song 
In  melodious  thoughts  of  thee  ; 
And  well  I  know  it  cannot  die 
Till  eternal  morn  shall  break, 
For,  through  life's  slumber,  thou  and  1 
Will  keep  it  for  each  other's  sake 
And  it  shall  not  be  silent  when  we  wake. 


ffourtb  of  3ul£  ©£>e. 

FOURTH  OF  JULY  ODE. 


OUR  fathers  fought  for  Liberty 
They  struggled  long  and  well, 
History  of  their  deeds  can  tell — 

But  did  they  leave  us  free  ? 

ii 

Are  we  free  from  vanity, 

Free  from  pride,  and  free  from  self, 
Free  from  love  of  power  and  pelf, 

From  everything  that's  beggarly? 

III. 

Are  we  free  from  stubborn  will, 
From  low  hate  and  malice  small, 
From  opinion's  tyrant  thrall  ? 

Are  none  of  us  our  own  slaves  still  ? 

IV. 

Are  we  free  to  speak  our  thought, 
To  be  happy,  and  be  poor, 
Free  to  enter  Heaven's  door, 

To  live  and  labor  as  we  ought  ? 

v. 

Are  we  then  made  free  at  last 
From  the  fear  of  what  men  say, 
Free  to  reverence  To-day, 

From  the  slavery  of  the  Past  ? 

VI. 

Our  fathers  fought  for  liberty, 
They  struggled  long  and  well. 
History  of  their  deeds  can  tell — 

But  ourselves  must  set  us  free. 


SPHINX. 


i. 


WHY  mourn  we  for  the  golden  prime 
When  our  young  souls  were  kingly,  strong,  and  true 

The  soul  is  greater  than  all  time, 
It  changes  not,  but  yet  is  ever  new. 


Spbinj.  185 

ii. 

But  that  the  soul  zs  noble,  we 
Could  never  know  what  nobleness  had  been ; 

Be  what  ye  dream !  and  earth  shall  see 
A  greater  greatness  than  she  e'er  hath  seen. 

in. 

The  flower  pines  not  to  be  fair, 
It  never  asketh  to  be  sweet  and  dear, 

But  gives  itself  to  sun  and  air, 
And  so  is  fresh  and  full  from  year  to  year. 

IV. 

Nothing  in  Nature  weeps  its  lot, 
Nothing,  save  man,  abides  in  memory, 

Forgetful  that  the  Past  is  what 
Ourselves  may  choose  the  coming  time  to  be. 

v. 

All  things  are  circular;  the  Past 
Was  given  to  make  the  Future  great ; 

And  the  void  Future  shall  at  last 
Be  the  strong  rudder  of  an  after  fate. 

VI. 

We  sit  beside  the  Sphinx  of  Life, 
We  gaze  into  its  void,  unanswering  eyes, 

And  spend  ourselves  in  idle  strife 
To  read  the  riddle  of  their  mysteries. 

VII. 

Arise !  be  earnest  and  be  strong ! 
The  Sphinx's  eyes  shall  suddenly  grow  clear, 

And  speak  as  plain  to  thee  ere  long, 
As  the  dear  maiden's  who  holds  thee  most  dear. 

VIII. 

The  meaning  of  all  things  in  us — 
Yea,  in  the  lives  we  give  our  souls — doth  lie ; 

Make,  then,  their  meaning  glorious 
By  such  a  life  as  need  not  fear  to  die ! 

IX. 

There  is  no  heart-beat  in  the  day, 
Which  bears  a  record  of  the  smallest  deed, 

But  holds  within  its  faith  alway 
That  which  in  doubt  we  vainly  strive  to  read. 


186  B  prager. 

x. 

One  seed  contains  another  seed, 
And  that  a  third,  and  so  for  evermore ; 

And  promise  of  as  great  a  deed 
Lies  folded  in  the  deed  that  went  before. 

XI. 

So  ask  not  fitting  space  or  time. 
Yet  could  not  dream  of  things  which  could  not  1>< 

Each  day  shall  make  the  next  sublime, 
And  Time  be  swallowed  in  Eternity. 

XII. 

God  bless  the  Present!  it  is  ALL; 
It  has  been  Future,  and  it  shall  be  Past; 

Awake  and  live !  thy  strength  recall, 
And  in  one  trinity  unite  them  fast. 

XIII. 

Action  and  Life — lo !  here  the  key 
Of  all  on  earth  that  seemeth  dark  and  wrong ; 

Win  this — and  with  it,  freely  ye 
May  enter  that  bright  realm  for  which  ye  long. 

XIV. 

Then  all  these  bitter  questionings 
Shall  with  a  full  and  blessed  answer  meet ; 

Past  worlds,  whereof  the  Poet  sings, 
Shall  be  the  earth  beneath  his  snow-white  fleet. 


A  PRAYER. 

GOD!  do  not  let  my  loved  one  die, 

But  rather  wait  until  the  time 
That  I  am  grown  in  purity 

Enough  to  enter  thy  pure  clime, 
Then  take  me,  I  will  gladly  go, 
So  that  my  love  remain  below ! 

O,  let  her  stay!     She  is  by  birth 

What  I  through  death  must  learn  to  be, 

We  need  her  more  on  our  poor  earth, 

Tha'n  thou  canst  need  in  heaven  with  thee; 

She  hath  her  wings  already,  I 

Must  burst  this  earth-shell  ere  I  flv. 


jfantasg. 

Then,  God,  take  me !  We  shall  be  near, 
More  near  than  ever,  each  to  each : 

Her  angel  ears  will  find  more  clear 
My  heavenly  than  my  earthly  speech ; 

And  still,  as  I  draw  nigh  to  thee, 

Her  soul  and  mine  shall  closer  be. 

1841. 


187 


FANTASY. 

ROUND  and  round  me  she  waved  swinging, 

Like  a  wreath  of  smoke, 
In  a  clear,  low  gurgle  singing 

What  may  ne'er  be  spoke; 
Her  white  arms  floated  on  the  air, 

Like  swans  upon  a  stream. 
So  stately  fair,  beyond  compare, 


"ROUND  AND  RorxD  ME  SHE  WAVED  SWINGING, 

LIKE  A  WREATH  OP  SMOKE." 

Their  gracefulness  did  seem, 
And  I  knew,  by  the  splendor  of  her  hair. 

That  all  must  be  a  dream ; 
For  round  her  limbs  it  went  and  came, 
Hither  and  thither, 
I  knew  not  whither, 
Fitfully  like  a  wind-waved  flame—- 
But  bright  and  golden  as  flame  was  never, — 
And  it  flowed  back  and  forth, 
Like  the  lights  of  the  north, 
Round  her  and  round  her  forever  and  ever ! 


i88  Cbe  t>erttage. 

She  filled  the  cup  of  melody 
•  With  madness  to  the  brim, 
And  \vild,  wild  songs  she  sang  to  me 

That  made  my  brain  grow  dim, 
Like  those  that  throng  the  traveler's  mind, 
When  night  drops  down  before  and  behind, 
And  he  can  hear  nauhgt  but  the  lonely  wind 
In  the  bleak  pines  over  him  : 
How  may  I  tell 
The  sea-like  swell 
Of  ever-growing  melody, 
That  drifted  her  words, 
Like  white  sea-birds, 
Swinging  and  heaving  on  to  me  ? 

Her  song  came  like  a  sudden  breeze ; 
It  wound  through  my  heart 
With  a  flashing  dart, 
As  a  bird  winds  through  the  trees; 
'T  was  like  a  brook  flowing. 
'T  was  like  a  wind  blowing. 
'T  was  like  a  star  and  like  a  river, 
'T  was  like  all  things  that  weary  never, — 
It  rhymed  with  the  grass  and  the  open  sky, 
With  a  billowy  roll, 
It  flooded  my  soul, 
And  thrilled  it  with  fearful  ecstasy ; 
It  was  calm  as  music  e'er  can  be, 
But  an  inward  might  was  in  its  motion, 
A  consciousness  of  majesty, 
Like  the  heart  of  the  unruffled  ocean, 
Which,  clear  and  still,  by  breeze  unshent, 
With  a  world-wide  throe, 
Heaves  to  and  fro. 
From  continent  to  continent. 

1842. 


THE  HERITAGE. 

THE  rich  man's  son  inherits  lands, 

And  piles  of  brick,  and  stone  and  gold, 

And  he  inherits  soft,  white  hands, 
And  tender  flesh  that  fears  the  cold, 

Nor  dares  to  wear  a  garment  old ; 


Iberitage.  189 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  cares ; 

The  bank  may  break,  the  factory  burn, 
A  breath  may  burst  his  bubble  shares, 

And  soft,  white  hands  could  hardly  earn 

A  living  that  would  serve  his  turn ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

The  rich  man's  son  inherits  wants, 

His  stomach  craves  for  dainty  fare; 
With  sated  heart,  he  hears  the  pants 

Of  toiling  hinds  with  brown  arms  bare, 

And  wearies  in  his  easy-chair ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
One  scarce  would  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

Stout  muscles  and  a  sinewy  heart, 
A  hardy  frame,  a  hardier  spirit ; 

King  of  two  hands,  he  does  his  part 

In  every  useful  toil  and  art; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

Wishes  o'erjoyed  with  humble  things, 
A  rank  adjudged  by  toil-worn  merit. 

Content  that  from  employment  springs, 

A  heart  that  in  his  labor  sings! 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

What  doth  the  poor  man's  son  inherit  ? 

A  patience  learned  of  being  poor, 
Courage,  if  sorrow  come,  to  bear  it, 

A  fellow-feeling  that  is  sure 

To  make  the  outcast  bless  his  door; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
A  king  might  wish  to  hold  in  fee. 

O,  rich  man's  son!  there  is  a  toil, 

That  with  all  others  level  stands ; 
Large  charity  doth  never  soil, 


"STOl'T  MUSCLES  AND  A  SINEWY  HEART, 
A   HARDY   FRAME,    A   HARDIER  SPIRIT." 


IRose :   B  JSallaO.  191 

But  only  whiten,  soft  white  hands, 
This  is  the  best  crop  from  thy  lands  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  rich  to  hold  in  fee. 

( ),  poor  man's  son  !  scorn  not  thy  state  ; 
There  is  worse  weariness  than  thine, 

In  merely  being  rich  and  great ; 
Toil  only  gives  the  soul  to  shine, 
And  makes  rest  fragrant  and  benign  ; 

A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 

Worth  being  poor  to  hold  in  fee. 

Both,  heirs  to  some  six  feet  of  sod, 

Are  equal  in  the  earth  at  last; 
Both,  children  of  the  same  dear  God, 

Prove  title  to  your  heirship  vast 

By  record  of  a  well-filled  past ; 
A  heritage,  it  seems  to  me, 
Well  worth  a  life  to  hold  in  fee. 


THE   ROSE:  A    BALLAD. 

I. 
IN  his  tower  sat  the  poet 

Gazing  on  the  roaring  sea. 
Take  this  rose,"  he  sighed,  and  throw  it 

\Vhere  there's  none  that  loveth  me. 
On  the  rock  the  billow  bursteth 

And  sinks  back  into  the  seas. 
But  in  vain  my  spirit  thirsteth 

So  to  burst  and  be  at  ease. 
Take,  O,  sea  !  the  tender  blossom 

That  hath  lain  against  my  breast ; 
On  thy  black  and  angry  bosom 
It  will  find  a  surer  rest. 
Life  is  vain,  and  love  is  hollow, 

Ugly  death  stands  there  behind, 
Hate  and  scorn  and  hunger  follow 

Him  that  toileth  for  his  kind." 
Forth  into  the  night  he  hurled  it, 

And  with  bitter  smile  did  mark 
How  the  surly  tempest  whirled  it 

Swift  into  the  hungry  dark. 


192  Gbe  IRoec :   B  JBallafc. 

Foam  and  spray  drive  back  to  leeward, 
And  the  gale,  with  dreary  moan, 

Drifts  the  helpless  blossom  seaward, 
Through  the  breakers  all  alone. 

II. 
Stands  a  maiden,  on  the  morrow, 

Musing  by  the  wave-beat  strand, 
Half  in  hope  and  half  in  sorrow, 

Tracing  words  upon  the  sand : 
"  Shall  I  ever  then  behold  him 

Who  hath  been  my  life  so  long, — 
Ever  to  this  sick  heart  fold  him, — 

lie  the  spirit  of  his  song  ? 
Touch  not,  sea,  the  blessed  letters 

I  have  traced  upon  thy  shore, 
Spare  his  name  whose  spirit  fetters 

Mine  with  love  forevermore  ?" 
Swells  the  tide  and  overflows  it, 

But  with  omen  pure  and  meet, 
Brings  a  little  rose  and  throws,  it 

Humbly  at  the  maiden's  feet. 
Full  of  bliss  she  takes  the  token, 

And,  upon  her  snowy  breast, 
Soothes  the  ruffled  petals  broken 

With  the  ocean's  fierce  unrest. 
"  Love  is  thine,  O,  heart!  and  surely 

Peace  shall  also  be  thine  own, 
For  the  heart  that  trusteth  purely 

Never  long  can  pine  alone." 

in. 
In  his  tower  sits  the  poet, 

Blisses  new  and  strange  to  him 
Fill  his  heart  and  overflow  it 

With  a  wonder  sweet  and  dim. 
Up  the  beach  the  ocean  slideth 

With  a  whisper  of  delight, 
And  the  moon  in  silence  glideth 

Through  the  peaceful  blue  of  night. 
Rippling  o'er  the  poet's  shoulder 

Flows  a  maiden's  golden  hair, 
Maiden-lips,  with  love  grown  bolder, 

Kiss  his  moon-lit  forehead  bare, 
"  Life  is  joy,  and  love  is  power, 

Death  all  fetters  doth  unbind, 


"AND,  UPON  HER  SNOWY  KKKAST, 
SOOTHES  THK  RUFFLED  PETALS  BROKEN. 


194  JElecig  on  Dr.  Gbanning. 

Strength  and  wisdom  only  flower 

When  we  toil  for  all  our  kind. 
Hope  is  truth, — the  future  giveth 

More  than  present  takes  away, 
And  the  soul  forever  liveth 

Nearer  God  from  day  to  day. " 
Not  a  word  the  maiden  uttered, 

Fullest  hearts  are  slow  to  speak, 
But  a  withered  roseleaf  fluttered 

Down  upon  the  poet's  cheek. 

1842. 


ELEGY  OX  THE  DEATH  OF  DR.   CHANNIXG. 

I  DO  not  come  to  weep  above  thy  pall. 

And  mourn  the  dying  out  of  noble  powers ; 
The  poer's  clearer  eye  should  see  in  all 

Earth's  seeming  woe  the  seed  of  Heaven's  flowers. 

Truth  needs  no  champions :  in  the  infinite  deep 

Of  everlasting  Soul  her  life  abides, 
From  Nature's  heart  her  mighty  pulses  leap, 

Through  Nature's  veins,  her  strength,  undying,  tides. 

Peace  is  more  strong  than  war,  and  gentleness, 

Where  force  were  vain,  makes  conquests  o'er  the  wave 

And  love  lives  on  and  hath  a  power  to  bless, 
When  they  who  loved  are  hidden  in  the  grave. 

The  sculptured  marble  brags  of  death-strewn  fields. 

And  Glory's  epitaph  is  writ  in  blood ; 
But  Alexander  now  to  Plato  yields, 

Clarkson  will  stand  where  Wellington  hath  stood. 

I  watch  the  circle  of  the  eternal  years, 

And  read  forever  in  the  storied  page 
One  lengthened  roll  of  blood,  and  wrong,  and  tears, 

One  onward  step  of  Truth  from  age  to  age. 

The  poor  are  crushed  ;  the  tyrants  link  their  chain  ; 

The  poet  sings  through  narrow  dungeon-grates ; 
Man's  hope  lies  quenched ; — and  lo !  with  steadfast  gain 

Freedom  doth  forge  her  mail  of  adverse  fates. 


Blecjg  on  Dr.  Cbanntiuj.  195 

Men  slay  the  prophets ;  fagot,  rack  and  cross 

Make  up  the  groaning  record  of  the  past ; 
Hut  Evil's  triumphs  are  her  endless  loss, 

And  sovereign  Beauty  wins  the  soul  at  last. 

Xo  power  can  die  that  ever  wrought  for  Truth  ; 

Thereby  a  law  of  Nature  it  became, 
And  lives  unwithered  in  its  sinewy  youth, 

When  he  who  called  it  forth  is  but  a  name. 

Therefore  I  cannot  think  thee  wholly  gone; 

The  better  part  of  thee  is  with  us  still; 
Thy  soul  its  hampering  clay  aside  hath  thrown, 

And  only  freer  wrestles  with  the  111. 

Thou  livest  in  the  life  of  all  good  things; 

What  words  thou  spak'st  for  Freedom  shall  not  die ; 
Thou  sleepest  not,  for  now  thy  Love  hath  wings 

To  soar  where  hence  thy  Hope  could  hardly  fly. 

And  often,  from  that  other  world,  on  this 

Some  gleams  from  great  souls  gone  before  may  shine, 

To  shed  on  struggling  hearts  a  clearer  bliss, 
And  clothe  the  Right  with  lustre  more  divine. 

Thou  art  not  idle :  in  thy  higher  sphere 

Thy  spirit  bends  itself  to  loving  tasks, 
And  strength,  to  perfect  what  is  dreamed  of  here, 

Is  all  the  crown  and  glory  that  it  asks. 

For  sure,  in  Heaven's  wide  chambers,  there  is  room 

For  love  and  pity,  and  for  helpful  deeds ; 
Else  were  our  summons  thither  but  a  doom 

To  life  more  vain  than  this  in  clayey  weeds. 

From  off  the  starry  mountain-peak  of  song, 

Thy  spirit  shows  me,  in  the  coming  time. 
An  earth  unwithered  by  the  foot  of  wrong, 

A  race  revering  its  own  soul  sublime. 

What  wars,  what  martyrdoms,  what  crimes  may  come 
Thou  knowest  not,  nor  I ;  but  God  will  lead 

The  prodigal  soul  from  want  and  sorrow  home, 
And  Eden  ope  her  gates  to  Adam's  seed. 


196 


Farewell!  good  man,  good  angel  now!  this  hand 
Soon,  like  thine  own,  shall  lose  its  cunning,  too; 

Soon  shall  this  soul,  like  thine,  bewildered  stand, 
Then  leap  to  thread  the  free,  unfathomed  blue  : 

When  that  day  comes,  O,  may  this  hand  grow  cold, 
Busy,  like  thine,  for  Freedom  and  the  Right; 

O,  may  this  soul,  like  thine,  be  ever  bold 
To  face  dark  Slavery's  encroaching  blight  ! 

This  laurel-leaf  I  cast  upon  thy  bier  ; 

Let  worthier  hands  than  these  thy  wreath  entwine  ; 


"THIS  LAL'KKL-LKAK   I   CAST  UPON  THY   UIEK." 

Upon  thy  hearse  I  shed  no  useless  tear, — 
For  me  weep  rather  thou  in  calm  divine! 

1842. 


STANZAS. 

SUNG   AT   THE   ANTI-SLAVERY    PICNIC    IN    DEDHAM,    ON    THE 

ANNIVERSARY    OF    WEST-INDIA    EMANCIPATION, 

ATGUST    I,     1843. 

MEN  !  whose  boast  it  is  that  ye 
Come  of  fathers  brave  and  free, 
If  there  breathe  on  earth  a  slave, 
Are  ye  truly  free  and  brave? 
If  ye  do  not  feel  the  chain, 
When  it  works  a  brother's  pain, 
Are  ye  not  base  slaves  indeed, — 
Slaves  unworthy  to  be  freed? 

Women !  who  shall  one  day  bear 
Sons  to  breathe  New  England  air, 
If  ye  hear  without  a  blush, 
Deeds  to  make  the  roused  blood  rush 


Silence.  197 

Like  red  lava  through  your  veins, 
For  your  sisters  now  in  chains,— 
Answer !  are  ye  fit  to  be 
Mothers  of  the  brave  and  free  ? 

Is  true  Freedom  but  to  break 
Fetters  for  our  own  dear  sake, 
And,  with  leathern  hearts,  forget 
That  we  owe  mankind  a  debt? 
No !  true  freedom  is  to  share 
All  the  chains  our  brothers  wear, 
And,  with  heart  and  hand,  to  be 
Earnest  to  make  others  free ! 

They  are  slaves  who  fear  to  speak 

For  the  fallen  and  the  weak ; 

They  are  slaves  who  will  not  choose 

Hatred,  scoffing  and  abuse, 

Rather  than  in  silence  shrink 

From  the  truth  they  needs  must  think ; 

They  are  slaves  who  dare  not  be 

In  the  right  with  two  or  three. 


SILENCE. 

WHEN  the  cup  of  hope  brims  over 

And  the  soul  has  drunk  its  fill, 

When  the  loved-one  meets  the  lover 

And  their  hearts  in  sunshine  hover 

With  one  impulse  and  one  will, — 

Then  the  useless  tongue  is  still. 

When  the  heart  is  bare  of  gladness, 

And  the  helpless  sense  of  ill 
Goads  the  apathy  of  sadness 
Onward,  through  a  whirl  of  madness 
To  a  darkness  drear  and  chill, — 
Then  the  palsied  tongue  is  still. 

When  the  soul  for  power  sigheth, 
Struggling  for  Art's  fuller  skill, 

And  the  prophet  heart  o'erflieth 

All  the  agony  that  trieth, 

All  the  teardrops  it  must  spill, — 
When  the  tranced  tongue  is  still. 


198  B   Cbippewa   T 

When  two  hearts  that  love  are  parted, 
And  truth  lingers  but  to  kill, 

When  they  strive  to  be  hardhearted. 

And  the  props  of  life  are  started 
With  a  terror  and  a  thrill, — 
Then  the  choking  tongue  is  still. 

When  our  souls  youth's  dream-chains  shiver, 
And  we  leap  the  world's  scant  rill, 

Which  had  seemed  a  mighty  river 

Roaring  on  and  on  forever 

'Tween  us  and  Self-trust's  steep  hill, 
Then  the  trembling  tongue  is  still. 

O,  sweet  Silence  !  they  belied  thee 
Who  have  called  thee  vain  and  weak ; 

Speech  is  emptiness  beside  thee, 

Joy  and  woe  have  glorified  thee, 
Love  and  longing  never  seek 

Any  better  way  to  speak. 

All  the  deepest  thoughts  and  feelings 

Which  the  roots  of  life  enfold, 
Passion's  sudden  shocks  and  reelings, 
Love's  first  tremulous  revealings, 
Never  can  be  fully  told, 
Save  by  the,  revered  of  old  ! 


A  CHIPPEWA  LEGEND.* 
aXyeiva  J.UY  j.toi  KWI  \ty£iv  effri 
tuXyo;  dt  ffiyav. 

^Eschylus,  Prom.  Vinct.,  197. 

THE  old  Chief,  feeling  now  well-nigh  his  end, 
Called  his  two  eldest  children  to  his  side, 
And  gave  them,  in  few  words,  his  parting  charge: 
"  My  son  and  daughter,  me  ye  see  no  more ; 
The  happy  hunting-grounds  await  me,  green 
With  change  of  spring  and  summer  through  the  year: 
But,  for  remembrance,  after  I  am  gone. 
Be  kind  to  little  Sheemah  for  my  sake : 
Weakling  he  is  and  young,  and  knows  not  yet 

*  For  the  leading  incidents  in  this  tale,  I  am  indebted  to  the 
very  valuable  "  Algic  Researches  "  of  Henry  R.  Schoolcraft,  Esq. 


B   Gbippewa   XegeuD.  199 

To  set  the  trap,  or  draw  the  seasoned  bow ; 
Therefore  of  both  your  loves  he  hath  more  need, 
And  he  who  needeth  love,  to  love  hath  right; 
It  is  not  like  our  furs  and  stores  of  corn, 
Whereto  we  claim  sole  title  by  our  toil. 
But  the  Great  Spirit  plants  it  in  our  hearts. 
And  waters  it  and  gives  it  sun,  to  be 
The  common  stock  and  heritage  of  all : 
Therefore  be  kind  to  Sheemah,  that  yourselves 
May  not  be  left  deserted  in  your  need." 

Alone  beside  a  lake,  their  wigwam  stood, 
Far  from  the  other  dwellings  of  their  tribe ; 
And  after  many  moons,  the  loneliness 
Wearied  the  elder  brother,  and  he  said, 
Why  should  I  dwell  here  all  alone,  shut  out 
From  the  free,  natural  joys  that  fit  my  age? 
Lo,  I  am  tall  and  strong,  well  skilled  to  hunt, 
Patient  of  toil  and  hunger,  and  not  yet 
Have  seen  the  danger  which  I  dare  not  look 
Full  in  the  face ;  what  hinders  me  to  be 
A  mighty  Brave  and  Chief  among  my  kin  ?" 
So,  taking  up  his  arrows  and  his  bow, 
As  if  to  hunt,  he  journeyed  swiftly  on, 
Until  he  gained  the  wigwams  of  his  tribe, 
\Vhere,  choosing  out  a  bride,  he  soon  forgot, 
In  all  the  fret  and  bustle  of  new  life, 
The  little  Sheemah  and  his  father's  charge. 

Now  when  the  sister  found  her  brother  gone, 
And  that  for  many  days  he  came  not  back, 
She  wept  for  Sheemah  more  than  for  herself; 
For  Love  bides  longest  in  a  woman's  heart, 
And  flutters  many  times  before  he  flies, 
And  then  doth  perch  so  nearly,  that  a  word 
May  lure  him  back,  as  swift  and  glad  as  light ; 
And  Duty  lingers  even  when  love  is  gone, 
Oft  looking  out  in  hope  of  his  return ; 
And  after  Duty  hath  been  driven  forth, 
Then  Selfishness  creeps  in  the  last  of  all, 
Warming  her  lean  hands  at  the  lonely  hearth, 
And  crouching  o'er  the  embers,  to  shut  out, 
Whatever  paltry  warmth  and  light  are  left, 
\Vith  avaricious  greed,  from  all  besides. 
So,  for  long  months,  the  sister  hunted  wide, 
And  cared  for  little  Sheemah  tenderly ; 


B  Cbippewa  OUgenD. 

But,  daily  more  and  more,  the  loneliness 
Grew  wearisome,  and  to  herself  she  sighed, 
Am  I  not  fair  ?  at  least  the  glassy  pool, 
That  hath  no  cause  to  flatter,  tells  me  so; 
But,  O,  how  flat  and  meaningless  the  tale, 
Unless  it  tremble  on  a  lover's  tongue  ! 
Beauty  hath  no  true  glass,  except  it  be 
In  the  sweet  privacy  of  loving  eyes." 
Thus  deemed  she  idly,  and  forgot  the  lore 


'AM   I  NOT  FAIR?      AT  LEAST  THE  GLASSY  POOL,  THA'I 
HATH  NO  CAUSE  TO  FLATTER,  TELLS  ME  SO." 


Which  she  had  learned  of  nature  and  the  woods, 

That  beauty's  chief  reward  is  to  itself, 

And  that  the  eyes  of  Love  reflect  alone 

The  inward  fairness,  which  is  blurred  and  lost 

Unless  kept  clear  and  white  by  Duty's  care. 

So  she  went  forth  and  sought  the  haunts  of  men, 

And,  being  wedded,  in  her  household  cares, 

Soon,  like  the  elder  brother,  quite  forgot 

The  little  Sheemah  and  her  father's  charge. 


&  Cbippewa  XegenO.  201 

But  Sheemah,  left  alone  within  the  lodge, 
Waited  and  waited,  with  a  shrinking  heart, 
Thinking  each  rustle  was  his  sister's  step, 
Till  hope  grew  less  and  less,  and  then  went  out, 
And  every  sound  was  changed  from  hope  to  fear. 
Few  sounds  there  were ; — the  dropping  of  a  nut, 
The  squirrel's  chirrup,  and  the  jay's  harsh  scream, 
Autumn's  sad  remnants  of  blithe  Summer's  cheer, 
Heard  at  long  intervals,  seemed  but  to  make 
The  dreadful  void  of  silence  silenter. 
Soon  what  small  store  his  sister  left  was  gone, 
And  through  the  Autumn  he  made  shift  to  live 
On  roots  and  berries,  gathered  in  much  fear 
Of  wolves,  whose  ghastly  howl  he  heard  oftimes, 
Hollow  and  hungry,  at  the  dead  of  night, 
But  Winter  came  at  last,  and,  when  the  snow, 
Thick-heaped  for  gleaming  leagues  o'er  hill  and  plain, 
Spread  its  unbroken  silence  over  all, 
Made  bold  by  hunger,  he  was  fain  to  glean, 
(More  sick  at  heart  than  Ruth,  and  all  alone,) 
After  the  harvest  of  the  merciless  wolf, 
Grim  Boaz,  who,  sharp-ribbed  and  gaunt,  yet  feared 
A  thing  more  wild  and  starving  than  himself; 
Till,  by  degrees,  the  wolf  and  he  grew  friends, 
And  shared  together  all  the  winter  through. 

Late  in  the  Spring,  when  all  the  ice  was  gone, 
The  elder  brother,  fishing  in  the  lake, 
Upon  whose  edge  his  father's  wigwam  stood, 
Heard  a  low  moaning  noise  upon  the  shore  : 
Half  like  a  child  it  seemed,  half  like  a  wolf, 
And  straightway  there  was  something  in  his  heart 
That  said,  "  It  is  thy  brother  Sheemah's  voice.  " 
So,  paddling  swiftly  to  the  bank,  he  saw, 
Within  a  little  thicket  close  at  hand, 
A  child  that  seemed  fast  changing  to  a  wolf, 
From  the  neck  downward,  gray  with  shaggy  hair, 
That  still  crept  on  and  upward  as  he  looked. 
The  face  was  turned  away,  but  well  he  knew 
That  it  was  Sheemah's,  even  his  brother's  face. 
Then  with  his  trembling  hands  he  hid  his  eyes, 
And  bowed  his  head,  so  that  he  might  not  see 
The  first  look  of  his  brother's  eyes,  and  cried, 
O,  Sheemah!  O,  my  brother  speak  to  me! 
Dost  thou  not  know  me,  that  I  am  thy  brother  ? 


SO,  PADDLING  SWIFTLY  TO  THE    BANK,   HE    SAW.   A  CHILD 
THAT  SKEMEI)  FAST  CHANGING    TO  A  WOLF." 


n   Cbippewa   OLecjenfr.  203 

Come  to  me,  little  Sheemah,  thou  shalt  dwell 

With  me  henceforth,  and  know  no  care  or  want  !" 

Sheemah  \vas  silent  for  a  space,  as  if 

'T  were  hard  to  summon  up  a  human  voice, 

And  when  he  spake,  the  sound  was  of  a  wolf's 

I  know  thee  not,  nor  art  thou  what  thou  sayest ; 

I  have  none  other  brethren  than  the  wolves, 

And  till  thy  heart  be  changed  from  what  it  is, 

Thou  art  not  worthy  to  be  called  their  kin." 

Then  groaned  the  other,  with  a  choking  tongue, 

Alas !  my  heart  is  changed  right  bitterly ; 

'T  is  shrunk  and  parched  within  me  even  now!" 

And  looking  upward  fearfully  he  saw 

Only  a  wolf  that  shrank  away  and  ran, 

Ugly  and  fierce,  to  hide  among  the  woods. 

This  rude,  wild  legend  hath  an  inward  sense, 
Which  it  were  well  we  all  should  lay  to  heart ; 
For  have  not  we  our  younger  brothers,  too, 
The  poor,  the  outcast,  and  the  trodden-down, 
Left  fatherless  on  earth  to  pine  for  bread  ? 
They  are  ahungered  for  our  love  and  care, 
It  is  their  spirits  that  are  famishing, 
And  our  dear  Father,  in  his  Testament, 
Bequeathed  them  to  us  as  our  dearest  trust, 
Whereof  we  shall  give  up  a  straight  account. 
Woe,  if  we  have  forgotten  them,  and  left 
Those  souls  that  might  have  grown  so  fair  and  glad. 
That  only  wanted  a  kind  word  from  us, 
To  be  so  free  and  gently  beautiful. — 
Left  them  to  feel  their  birthright  as  a  curse, 
To  grow  all  lean  and  cramped,  and  full  of  sores, 
And  last, — sad  change,  that  surely  comes  to  all 
Shut  out  from  manhood  by  their  brother  man, — 
To  turn  mere  wolves,  for  lack  of  aught  to  love ! 

Hear  it,  O  England !  thou  who  liest  asleep 
On  a  volcano,  from  whose  pent-up  wrath, 
Already  some  red  flashes,  bursting  up, 
Glare  bloodily  on  coronet  and  crown 
And  gray  cathedral  looming  huge  aloft, 
With  dreadful  portent  of  o'erhanging  doom  ! 
Thou  Dives  among  nations!  from  whose  board. 
After  the  dogs  are  fed,  poor  Lazarus, 
Crooked  and  worn  with  toil,  and  hollow-eyed, 
Begs  a  few  crumbs  in  vain ! 


204  B   Cbtppcwa   XccjentX 

I  honor  thee 

For  all  the  lessons  thou  has  taught  the  world, 
Not  few  nor  poor,  and  freedom  chief  of  all ; 
I  honor  thee  for  thy  huge  energy, 
Thy  tough  endurance,  and  thy  fearless  heart : 
And  how  could  man,  who  speaks  with  English  words, 
Think  lightly  of  the  blessed  womb  that  bare 
Shakspeare  and  Milton,  and  full  many  more 
Whose  names  are  now  our  earth's  sweet  lullabies, 
Wherewith  she  cheers  the  infancy  of  those 
Who  are  to  do  her  honor  in  their  lives  ? 
Yet  I  would  bid  thee,  ere  too  late,  beware, 
Lest,  while  thou  playest  off  thine  empty  farce 
Of  Queenship  to  outface  a  grinning  world, 
Patching  thy  purple  out  with  filthy  rags, 
To  make  thy  madness  a  more  bitter  scoff, 
Thy  starving  millions — who  not  only  pine 
For  body's  bread,  but  for  the  bread  of  life, 
The  light,  which  from  their  eyes  is  quite  shut  out 
By  the  broad  mockery  of  thy  golden  roof, — 
Should  turn  to  wolves  that  hanker  for  thy  blood. 
Even  now  their  cry,  which  o'er  the  ocean-stream, 
Wanders  and  moans  upon  the  awe-struck  ear, 
Clear-heard  above  the  sea's  eternal  wail, 
But  deeper  far,  and  mournfuller  than  that 
(For  naught  so  fathomless  as  woe  unshared,) 
Hath  learned  a  savage  meaning  of  the  wolf, 
Whose  nature  now  half-triumphs  in  the  heart 
Of  the  world-exiled  and  despairing  Man. 

And  thou,  my  country,  who  to  me  art  dear 
As  is  the  blood  that  circles  through  my  heart, 
To  whom  God  granted  it  in  charge  to  be 
Freedom's  apostle  to  a  trampled  world, 
Who  shouldst  have  been  a  mighty  name  to  shake 
Old  lies  and  shams  as  with  a  voice  from  Heaven, 
Art  little  better  than  a  sneer  and  mock, 
And  tyrants  smile  to  see  thee  holding  up 
Freedom's  broad  ^Egis  o'er  three  million  slaves ! 
Shall  God  forget  himself  to  humor  thee  ? 
Shall  Justice  lie  to  screen  thine  ugly  sin  ! 
Shall  the  eternal  laws  of  truth  become 
Cobwebs  to  let  thy  foul  oppression  through  ? 
Shall  the  untiring  Vengeance,  that  pursues, 
Age  after  age,  upon  the  sinner's  track, 


B   Cbippewa   "ieQcnb.  205 

Roll  back  his  burning  deluge  at  thy  beck  ? 

Woe !  woe  !     Even  now  I  see  thy  star  drop  down, 

Waning  and  pale,  its  faint  disc  flecked  with  blood, 

That  had  been  set  in  heaven  gloriously, 

To  beacon  Man  to  Freedom  and  to  home  ! 

Woe !  woe !  I  hear  the  loathsome  serpent  hiss, 

Trailing,  unharmed,  its  slow  and  bloated  folds 

O'er  the  lone  ruins  of  thy  Capitol! 

I  see  those  outcast  millions  turned  to  wolves, 

That  howl  and  snarl  o'er  Freedom's  gory  corse, 

And  lap  the  ebbing  heart's-blood  of  that  Hope, 

Which  would  have  made  our  earth  smile  back  on  heaven, 

A  happy  child  upon  a  happy  mother, 

From  whose  ripe  breast  it  drew  the  milk  of  life. 

But  no,  my  country !  other  thoughts  than  these 
Befit  a  son  of  thine  :  serener  thoughts 
Befit  the  heart  which  can,  unswerved,  believe 
That  Wrong  already  feels  itself  o'ercome, 
If  but  one  soul  hath  strength  to  see  the  right, 
Or  one  free  tongue  dare  speak  it.      All  mankind 
Look,  with  an  anxious  flutter  of  the  heart, 
To  see  thee  working  out  thy  glorious  doom. 
Thou  shalt  not,  with  a  lie  upon  thy  lips, 
Forever  prop  up  cunning  despotisms, 
And  help  to  strengthen  every  tyrant's  plea. 
By  striving  to  make  man's  deep  soul  content 
With  a  half-truth  that  feeds  it  with  mere  wind. 
God  judgeth  us  by  what  we  know  of  right, 
Rather  than  what  we  practice  that  is  wrong, 
Unknowingly ;  and  thou  shalt  yet  be  bold 
To  stand  before  Him,  with  a  heart  made  clean 
By  doing  that  He  taught  thee  how  to  preach. 
Thou  yet  shalt  do  thy  holy  errand ;  yet, 
That  little  Mayflower,  convoyed  by  the  winds 
And  the  rude  waters  to  our  rocky  shore, 
Shall  scatter  Freedom's  seed  throughout  the  world, 
And  all  the  nations  of  the  earth  shall  come, 
Singing,  to  share  the  harvest-home  of  truth. 


206  Gbe  Ufsion  of  Sir  Xaunfal. 

THE  VISION  OF  SIR  LAUXFAL. 

PRELUDE    TO    PART    FIRST. 

OVER  his  keys  the  musing  organist, 

Beginning  doubtfully  and  far  away, 
First  lets  his  ringers  wander  as  they  list, 

And  builds  a  bridge  from  Dreamland  for  his  lay; 

Then,  as  the  touch  of  his  loved 

instrument 
Gives  hope  and  fervor,  nearer 

draws  his  theme, 
First  guessed  by  faint  auroral 

flushes  sent 

Along  the  wavering  vista  of 
his  dream. 


Not  only  around  our  infancy 
Doth  heaven  with  all  its 

splendors  lie ; 
Daily,  with  souls  that  cringe 

and  plot, 
We  Sinais  climb  and  know 

it  not ; 

Over  our  manhood  bend  the 

skies ; 
Against  our  fallen  and   traitor 

lives 
The  great  winds  utter 

prophecies ; 
With  our  faint  hearts  the 

mountain  strives ; 
Its  arms  outstretched,  the 

druid  wood 

Waits  with  its  benedicite ; 
And  to  our  age's  drowsy  blood 

OVER  HIS  KEYS  THE  MUSING  ORGANIST,  FIRST  c   .,,      ,  ... 

I.KTS  HIS  FINGERS  WANDER  AS  THEY  LIST."  Still  shoUtS  the  inspiring  SCa. 

Earth  gets  its  price  for  what  Earth  gives  us ; 

The  beggar  is  taxed  for  a  corner  to  die  in, 
The  priest  hath  his  fee  who  conies  and  shrives  us, 

We  bargain  for  the  graves  we  lie  in ; 
At  the  Devil's  booth  are  all  things  sold, 
Each  ounce  of  dross  costs  its  ounce  of  gold ; 

For  a  cap  and  bells  our  lives  we  pay, 


Gbc  Uision  of  Sir  Xaunfal.  207 

Bubbles  \ve  earn  with  a  whole  soul's  tasking: 

'T  is  heaven  alone  that  is  given  away. 
'T  is  only  God  may  be  had  for  the  asking; 
There  is  no  price  set  on  the  lavish  summer ; 
And  June  may  be  had  by  the  poorest  comer. 
And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  Heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays : 
Whether  \ve  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  grasping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  Mowers ; 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys ; 
The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice. 
And  there  's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace  ; 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  flutters  and  sings; 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest, — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  Nature  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

Now  is  the  high-tide  of  the  year, 

And  whatever  of  life  hath  ebbed  away 
Comes  flooding  back,  with  a  ripply  cheer, 

Into  every  bare  inlet  and  creek  and  bay; 
Now  the  heart  is  so  full  that  a  drop  overfills  it, 
We  are  happy  now  because  God  so  wills  it ; 
No  matter  how  barren  the  past  may  have  been, 
'T  is  enough  for  us  now  that  the  leaves  are  green ; 
We  sit  in  the  warm  shade  and  feel  right  well 
How  the  sap  creeps  up  and  the  blossoms  swell ; 
We  may  shut  our  eyes,  but  we  cannot  help  knowing 
That  skies  are  clear  and  grass  is  growing ; 
The  breeze  comes  whispering  in  our  ear, 
That  dandelions  are  blossoming  near, 

That  maize  has  sprouted,  that  streams  are  flowing, 


208  Cbe  Uieion  of  Sir  ILaunfal. 

That  the  river  is  bluer  than  the  sky, 
That  the  robin  is  plastering  his  house  hard  by ; 
And  if  the  breeze  kept  the  good  news  back, 
For  other  couriers  we  should  not  lack ; 

We  could  guess  it  all  by  yon  heifer's  lowing, 
And  hark !  how  clear  bold  chanticleer, 
Warmed  with  the  new  wine  of  the  year. 

Tells  all  in  his  lusty  crowing! 

Joy  comes,  grief  goes,  we  know  not  how- ; 
Everything  is  happy  now, 

Everything  is  upward  striving ; 
'T  is  as  easy  now  for  the  heart  to  be  true 
As  for  grass  to  be  green  or  skies  to  be  blue, — 

'T  is  the  natural  way  of  living : 
Who  knows  whither  the  clouds  have  fled  ? 

In  the  unscarred  heaven  they  leave  no  wake; 
And  the  eyes  forget  the  tears  they  have  shed, 

The  heart  forgets  its  sorrow  and  ache ; 
The  soul  partakes  the  season's  youth, 

And  the  sulphurous  rifts  of  passion  and  woe 
Lie  deep  'neath  a  silence  pure  and  smooth, 

Like  burnt-out  craters  healed  with  snow. 
What  wonder  if  Sir  Launfal  now 
Remembered  the  keeping  of  his  vow  ? 

PART    FIRST. 


"  MY  golden  spurs  now  bring  to  me, 

And  bring  to  me  my  richest  mail, 
For  to-morrow  I  go  over  land  and  sea 

In  search  of  the  Holy  Grail; 
Shall  never  a  bed  for  me  be  spread, 
Nor  shall  a  pillow  be  under  my  head, 
Till  I  begin  my  vow  to  keep ; 
Here  on  the  rushes  will  I  sleep, 
And  perchance  there  may  come  a  vision  true 
Ere  day  create  the  world  anew." 

Slowly  Sir  Launfal's  eyes  grew  dim, 

Slumber  fell  like  a  cloud  on  him, 
And  into  his  soul  the  vision  flew. 

ii. 

The  crows  flapped  over  by  twos  and  threes, 
In  the  pool  drowsed  the  cattle  up  to  their  knees, 


Gbe  Vision  of  Sir  Xaunfal. 


209 


The  birds  sang  as  if  it  were 

The  one  day  of  summer  in  all  the  year, 
And  the  very  leaves  seemed  to  sing  on  the  trees : 
The  castle  alone  in  the  landscape  lay 
Like  an  outpost  of  winter,  dull  and  gray ; 
'  T  was  the  proudest  hall  in  the  North  Countree, 
And  never  its  gates  might  opened  be, 
Save  to  lord  or  lady  of  high  degree ; 
Summer  besieged  it  on  every  side, 
But  the  churlish  stone  her  assaults  defied ; 
She  could  not  scale  the  chilly  wall, 
Though  around  it  for  leagues  her  pavilions  tall 
Stretched  left  and  right, 
Over  the  hills  and  out  of  sight ; 

Green  and  broad  was  every  tent, 

And  out  of  each  a  murmur  went 
Till  the  breeze  fell  off  at  night. 

in. 

The  drawbridge  dropped  with 

a  surly  clang, 
And  through  the  dark  arch  a 

charger  sprang, 
Bearing  Sir  Launfal,  the  maiden 

knight, 
In  his  gilded  mail,  that  flamed 

so  bright 
It  seemed  the  dark  castle  had 

gathered  all 
Those  shafts  the  fierce  sun  had 

shot  over  its  wall 
In  his  siege  of  three  hundred 

summers  long, 
And,  binding  them  all  in  one 

blazing  sheaf, 
Had  cast  them  forth  :  so 

young  and  strong, 
And  lightsome  as  a  locust-leaf, 
Sir  Launfal  flashed  forth  in  his 

unscarred  mail, 
To  seek  in  all  climes  for  the 

Holy  Grail. 


'THE  DRAWBRIDGE  DROPPED  WITH  A  SUKI.Y 

CLANG,  AND  THROUGH  THE  DARK 

ARCH  A  CHARGER  SPRANG." 


It  was  morning  on  hill  and  stream  and  tree, 
And  morning  in  the  young  knight's  heart ; 


IDfgion  of  Sir  Xaunfal. 


Only  the  castle  moodily 

Rebuffed  the  gifts  of  the  sunshine  free. 

And  gloomed  by  itself  apart  ; 
The  season  brimmed  all  other  things  up 
Full  as  the  rain  fills  the  pitcher-plant's  cup. 


"THK  LKPER  RAISED  NOT  THK  GOLD  FROM  THE  DUST." 


As  Sir  Launfal  made  morn  through  the  darksome  gate. 
He  was  ware  of  a  leper,  crouched  by  the  same, 

Who  begged  with  his  hand  and  moaned  as  he  sate ; 
And  a  loathing  over  Sir  Launfal  came ; 

The  sunshine  went  out  of  his  soul  with  a  thrill, 
The  flesh  'neath  his  armor  did  shrink  and  crawl, 

And  midway  its  leap  his  heart  stood  still 


Cbe  Uision  of  Sir  launfal. 

Like  a  frozen  waterfall ; 
For  this  man,  so  foul  and  bent  of  stature, 
Rasped  harshly  against  his  dainty  nature, 
And  seemed  the  one  blot  on  the  summer  morn, — 
So  he  tossed  him  a  piece  of  gold  in  scorn. 


The  leper  raised  not  the  gold  from  the  dust : 
"  Better  to  me  the  poor  man's  crust, 
Better  the  blessing  of  the  poor, 
Though  I  turn  me  empty  from  his  door ; 
That  is  no  true  alms  which  the  hand  can  hold ; 
He  gives  nothing  but  worthless  gold 

Who  gives  from  a  sense  of  duty; 
But  he  who  gives  but  a  slender  mite, 
And  gives  to  that  which  is  out  of  sight, 

That  thread  of  the  all-sustaining  Beauty 
Which  runs  through  all  and  doth  all  unite, — 
The  hand  cannot  clasp  the  whole  of  his  alms, 
The  heart  outstretches  its  eager  palms, 
For  a  god  goes  with  it  and  makes  it  store 
To  the  soul  that  was  starving  in  darkness  before." 

PRELUDE  TO  PART  SECOND. 

DOWN  swept  the  chill  wind  from  the  mountain  peak. 
From  the  snow  five  thousand  summers  old ; 

On  open  wold  and  hill-top  bleak 
It  had  gathered  all  the  cold, 

And  whirled  it  like  sleet  on  the  wanderer's  cheek ; 

It  carried  a  shiver  everywhere 

From  the  unleafed  boughs  and  pastures  bare ; 

The  little  brook  heard  and  built  a  roof 

'Neath  which  he  could  house  him  winter-proof; 

All  night  by  the  white  stars'  frosty  gleams 

He  groined  his  arches  and  matched  his  beams; 

Slender  and  clear  were  his  crystal  spars 

As  the  lashes  of  light  that  trim  the  stars : 

He  sculptured  every  summer  delight 

In  his  halls  and  chambers  out  of  sight ; 

Sometimes  his  tinkling  waters  slipt 

Down  through  a  frost-leaved  forest-crypt, 

Long,  sparkling  aisles  of  steel-stemmed  trees 

Bending  to  counterfeit  a  breeze; 

Sometimes  the  roof  no  fretwork  knew 

But  silvery  mosses  that  downward  grew  ; 


212  tTbe  Dteion  of  Sir  Xaunfal. 

Sometimes  it  was  carved  in  sharp  relief 

With  quaint  arabesques  of  ice-fern  leaf; 

Sometimes  it  was  simply  smooth  and  clear 

For  the  gladness  of  heaven  to  shine  through,  and  here 

He  had  caught  the  nodding  bulrush-tops 

And  hung  them  thickly  with  diamond  drops. 

Which  crystalled  the  beams  of  moon  and  sun, 

And  made  a  star  of  every  one  : 

No  mortal  builder's  most  rare  device 

Could  match  this  winter-palace  of  ice ; 

'T  was  as  if  every  image  that  mirrored  lay 

In  his  depths  serene  through  the  summer  day, 

Each  flitting  shadow  of  earth  and  sky. 

Lest  the  happy  model  should  be  lost, 
Had  been  mimicked  in  fairy  masonry 

By  the  elfin  builders  of  the  frost. 

Within  the  hall  are  song  and  laughter, 

The  cheeks  of  Christmas  glow  red  and  jolly, 
And  sprouting  is  every  corbel  and  rafter 

With  lightsome  green  of  ivy  and  holly ; 
Through  the  deep  gulf  of  the  chimney  wide 
Wallows  the  Yule-log's  roaring  tide  ; 
The  broad  flame-pennons  droop  and  flap 

And  belly  and  tug  as  a  flag  in  the  wind : 
Like  a  locust  shrills  the  imprisoned  sap, 

Hunted  to  death  in  its  galleries  blind ; 
And  swift  little  troops  of  silent  sparks, 

Now  pausing,  now  scattering  away  as  in  fear, 
Go  threading  the  soot-forest's  tangled  darks 

Like  herds  of  startled  deer. 

But  the  wind  without  was  eager  and  sharp, 
Of  Sir  Launfal's  gray  hair  it  makes  a  harp, 
And  rattles  and  wrings 
The  icy  strings, 
Singing  in  dreary  monotone, 
A  Christmas  carol  of  its  own, 
Whose  burden  still,  as  he  might  guess, 
Was — "Shelterless,  shelterless,  shelterless!" 
The  voice  of  the  seneschal  flared  like  a  torch 
As  he  shouted  the  wanderer  away  from  the  porch, 
And  he  sat  in  the  gateway  and  saw  all  night 
The  great  hall-fire  so  cheery  and  bold, 
Through  the  window-slits  of  the  castle  old, 


Vision  of  Sir  Xaunfal.  213 

Build  out  its  piers  of  ruddy  light 
Against  the  drift  of  the  cold. 

PART    SECOND. 

I. 

THERE  was  never  a  leaf  on  bush  or  tree, 
The  bare  boughs  rattled  shudderingly ; 
The  river  was  dumb  and  could  not  speak, 

For  the  frost's  swift  shuttles  its  shroud  had  spun ; 
A  single  crow  on  the  tree-top  bleak 

From  his  shining  feathers  shed  off  the  cold  sun; 
Again  it  was  morning,  but  shrunk  and  cold, 
As  if  her  veins  were  sapless  and  old, 
And  she  rose  up  decrepitly 
For  a  last  dim  look  at  earth  and  sea. 

II. 

Sir  Launfal  turned  from  his  own  hard  gate, 

For  another  heir  in  his  earldom  sate; 

An  old,  bent  man,  worn  out  and  frail, 

He  came  back  from  seeking  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Little  he  recked  of  his  earldom's  loss, 

No  more  on  his  surcoat  was  blazoned  the  cross, 

But  deep  in  his  soul  the  sign  he.  wore. 

The  badge  of  the  suffering  and  the  poor. 

in. 

Sir  Launfal's  raiment  thin  and  spare 
Was  idle  mail  'gainst  the  barbed  air. 
For  it  was  just  at  the  Christmas  time; 
So  he  mused,  as  he  sat,  of  a  sunnier  clime, 
And  sought  for  a  shelter  from  cold  and  snow 
In  the  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago ; 
He  sees  the  snake-like  caravan  crawl 
O'er  the  edge  of  the  desert,  black  and  small, 
Then  nearer  and  nearer,  till  one  by  one 
He  can  count  the  camels  in  the  sun, 
As  over  the  red-hot  sands  they  pass 
To  where,  in  its  slender  necklace  of  grass, 
The  little  spring  laughed  and  leapt  in  the  shade, 
And  with  its  own  self  like  an  infant  played, 
And  waved  its  signal  of  palms. 

IV. 

For  Christ's  sweet  sake,  I  beg  an  alms ;  "- 
The  happy  camels  may  reach  the  spring, 


214  Cbe  Dfsion  of  Sir  Xaunfal. 

Hut  Sir  Launfal  sees  naught  save  the  grewsome  thing, 
The  leper,  lank  as  the  rain-blanched  bone, 
That  cowers  beside  him,  a  thing  as  lone 
And  white  as  the  ice-isles  of  Northern  seas 
In  the  desolate  horror  of  his  disease. 


"SIR  LAUNKAI,  TURNED  FHOM    HIS  OWN  HARD  GATE.' 
V. 

And  Sir  Launfal  said,  — "  I  behold  in  thee 

An  image  of  Him  who  died  on  the  tree ; 

Thou  also  hast  had  thy  crown  of  thorns, — 

Thou  also  hast  had  the  world's  buffets  and  scorns,- 


Cbe  Vision  of  Sir  Xaunfal.  215 

And  to  thy  life  were  not  denied 
The  wounds  in  the  hands  and  feet  and  side: 
Mild  Mary's  Son,  acknowledge  me; 
Behold,  through  him,  I  give  to  thee!" 


Then  the  soul  of  the  leper  stood  up  in  his  eyes 

And  looked  at  Sir  Launfal,  and  straightway  he 
Remembered  in  what  a  haughtier  guise 

He  had  Hung  an  alms  to  leprosie, 
When  he  caged  his  young  life  up  in  gilded  mail 
And  set  forth  in  search  of  the  Holy  Grail. 
The  heart  within  him  was  ashes  and  dust; 
He  parted  in  twain  his  single  crust, 
He  broke  the  ice  on  the  streamlet's  brink, 
And  gave  the  leper  to  eat  and  drink, 
'  T  was  a  mouldy  crust  of  coarse  brown  bread, 

'  T  was  water  out  of  a  wooden  bowl, 
Yet  with  fine  wheaten  bread  was  the  leper  fed, 

And  't  was  red  wine  he  drank  with  his  thirsty  soul. 

VII. 

As  Sir  Launfal  mused  with  a  downcast  face, 

A  light  shone  round  about  the  place; 

The  leper  no  longer  crouched  at  his  side, 

But  stood  before  him  glorified, 

Shining  and  tall  and  fair  and  straight 

As  the  pillar  that  stood  by  the  Beautiful  Gate,-  - 

Himself  the  Gate  whereby  men  can 

Enter  the  temple  of  God  in  Man. 

VIII. 

His  words  were  shed  softer  than  leaves  from  the  pine, 

And  they  fell  on  Sir  Launfal  as  snows  on  the  brine, 

Which  mingle  their  softness  and  quiet  in  one 

With  the  shaggy  unrest  they  float  down  upon ; 

And  the  voice  that  was  calmer  than  silence  said, 

"  Lo  it  is  I,  be  not  afraid  ! 

In  many  climes,  without  avail, 

Thou  hast  spent  thy  life  for  the  Holy  Grail ; 

Behold,  it  is  here, — this  cup  which  thou 

Didst  fill  at  the  streamlet  for  me  but  now ; 

This  crust  is  my  body  broken  for  thee, 

This  water  His  blood  that  died  on  the  tree ; 

The  Holy  Supper  is  kept,  indeed, 

In  whatso  we  share  with  another's  need; 


'THE  LEPER  NO  LONGFR  CKOUCHKP  AT  HIS  SIUK. 
BUT  STOOD  BEFORE  HIM  GLORIFIED." 


Cbe  Ui8ion  of  Sir  Xaunfal.  217 

Not  what  we  give,  but  what  we  share,  - 
For  the  gift  without  the  giver  is  bare ; 
Who  gives  himself  with  his  alms  feeds  three, — 
Himself,  his  hungering  neighbor,  and  me." 

IX. 

Sir  Launfal  awoke  as  from  a  swound  : — 
"  The  Grail  in  my  castle  here  is  found  ! 
Hang  my  idle  armor  up  on  the  wall, 
Let  it  be  the  spider's  banquet-hall ; 
He  must  be  fenced  with  stronger  mail 
\Yho  would  seek  and  find  the  Holy  Grail." 

X. 

The  castle  gate  stands  open  now, 

And  the  wanderer  is  welcome  to  the  hall 
As  the  hangbird  is  to  the  elm-lree  bough  ; 

No  longer  scowl  the  turrets  tall, 
The  summer's  long  siege  at  last  is  o'er; 
When  the  first  poor  outcast  went  in  at  the  door, 
She  entered  with  him  in  disguise, 
And  mastered  the  fortress  by  surprise  ; 
There  is  no  spot  she  loves  so  well  on  ground, 
She  lingers  and  smiles  there  the  whole  year  round  ; 
The  meanest  serf  on  Sir  Launfal's  land 
Has  hall  and  bower  at  his  command ; 
And  there  's  no  poor  man  in  the  North  Countree 
I>ut  is  lord  of  the  earldom  as  much  as  he. 


NOTE. — According  to  the  mythology  of  the  Romancers,  the 
vSan  Greal,  or  Holy  Grail,  was  the  cup  out  of  which  Jesus  partook 
of  the  last  supper  with  his  disciples.  It  was  brought  into  England 
by  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  and  remained  there,  an  object  of  pil 
grimage  and  adoration,  for  many  years  in  the  keeping  of  his 
lineal  descendants.  It  was  incumbent  upon  those  who  had  charge 
of  it  to  be  chaste  in  thought,  word,  and  deed;  but  one  of  the 
keepers  having  broken  this  condition,  the  Holy  Grail  disappeared. 
From  that  time  it  was  a  favorite  enterprise  of  the  knights  of 
Arthur's  court  to  go  in  search  of  it.  Sir  Galahad  was  at  last  suc 
cessful  in  finding  it,  as  may  be  read  in  the  seventeenth  book  of 
the  Romance  of  King  Arthur.  Tennyson  has  made  Sir  Galahad 
the  subject  of  one  of  the  most  exquisite  of  his  poems. 

The  plot  (if  I  may  give  that  name  to  am  thing  so  slight)  of  the 
foregoing  poem  is  my  own,  and,  to  serve  its  purposes,  I  have 
enlarged  the  circle  of  competition  in  search  of  the  miraculous 
cup  in  such  a  manner  as  to  include,  not  only  other  persons  than 
the  heroes  of  the  Round  Table,  but  also  a  period  of  time  subse 
quent  to  the  date  of  King  Arthur's  reign. 


2i8  Sonnet?. 

SONNETS. 

I. 
DISAPPOINTMENT. 

1  I'RAV  the'e  call  not  this  society; 

I  asked  for  bread,  thou  givest  me  a  stone ; 

I  am  an  hungered,  and  I  find  not  one 

To  give  me  meat,  to  joy  or  grieve  with  me  ; 

I  find  not  here  what  I  went  out  to  see — 

Souls  of  true  men,  of  women  who  can  move 

The  deeper,  better  part  of  us  to  love, 

Souls  that  can  hold  with  mine  communion  free. 

Alas!  must  then  these  hopes,  these  longings  high, 

This  yearning  of  the  soul  for  brotherhood. 

And  all  that  makes  us  pure,  and  wise,  and  good, 

Come  broken-hearted,  home  again  to  die  ? 

No,  Hope  is  left,  and  prays  with  bended  head, 

"  (live  us  this  day,  O  God,  our  daily  bread !  " 

II. 

GRKAT  human  nature,  whither  art  thou  fied  ? 
Ait  these  things  creeping  forth  and  back  agen, 
These  hollow  formalists  and  echoes,  men  ? 
Art  thou  entombed  with  the  mighty  dead  ? 
In  God's  name,  no!  not  yet  hath  all  been  said, 
( )r  done,  or  longed  for,  that  is  truly  great ; 
These  pitiful  dried  crusts  will  never  sate 
Natures  for  which  pure  Truth  is  daily  bread; 
\Ve  were  not  meant  to  plod  along  the  earth, 
Strange  to  ourselves  and  to  our  fellows  strange ; 
\Ve  were  not  meant  to  struggle  from  our  birth 
To  skulk  and  creep,  and  in  mean  pathways  range ; 
Act!  with  stern  truth,  large  faith,  and  loving  will! 
Up  and  be  doing!  God  is  with  us  still. 

III. 

TO    A    KRIKM). 

ONE  strip  of  bark  may  feed  the  broken  tree, 
Giving  to  some  few  limbs  a  sickly  green ; 
And  one  light  shower  on  the  hills,  I  ween, 
May  keep  the  spring  from  drying  utterly. 
Thus  seemeth  it  with  these  our  hearts  to  be; 
Hope  is  the  strip  of 'bark,  the  shower  of  rain. 
And  so  they  are  not  wholly  crushed  with  pain. 


Sonnets.  219 

But  live  and  linger  on,  for  sadder  sight  to  see; 
Much  do  they  err,  who  tell  us  that  the  heart 
May  not  be  broken ;  what,  then,  can  we  call 
A  broken  heart,  if  this  may  not  be  so, 
This  death  in  life,  when,  shrouded  in  its  pall, 
Shunning  and  shunned,  it  dwelleth  all  apart, 
Its  power,  its  love,  its  sympathy  laid  low  ? 

IV. 

So  may  it  be,  but  let  it  not  be  so, 

O,  let  it  not  be  so  with  thee,  my  friend ; 

Be  of  good  courage,  bear  up  to  the  end, 

And  on  thine  after  way  rejoicing  go ! 

We  all  must  suffer,  if  we  aught  would  know ; 

Life  is  a  teacher  stern,  and  wisdom's  crown 

Is  oft  a  crown  of  thorns,  whence  trickling  down, 

Blood,  mixed  with  tears,  blinding  our  eyes  doth  flow; 

But  Time,  a  gentle  nurse,  shall  wipe  away 

This  bloody  sweat,  and  thou  shall  find  on  earth, 

That  woman  is  not  all  in  all  to  Love, 

But,  living  by  a  new  and  second  birth, 

Thy  soul  shall  see  all  things  below,  above. 

Grow  bright  and  brighter  to  the  perfect  day. 


0  CHILD  of  Nature!  O  most  meek  and  free, 
Most  gentle  spirit  of  true  nobleness! 

Thou  doest  not  a  worthy  deed  the  less 
Because  the  world  may  not  its  greatness  see ; 
What  were  a  thousand  triumphings  to  thee, 
Who,  in  thyself,  art  as  a  perfect  sphere 
Wrapt  in  a  bright  and  natural  atmosphere 
Of  mighty-souledness  and  majesty? 
Thy  soul  is  not  too  high  for  lowly  things, 
Feels  not  its  strength  seeing  its  brother  weak, 
Not  for  itself  unto  itself  is  dear. 
But  for  that  it  may  guide  the  wanderings 
Of  fellow-men,  and  to  their  spirits  speak 
The  lofty  faith  of  heart  that  knows  no  fear. 

VI. 

"FOR  this  true  nobleness  I  seek  in  vain, 
In  woman  and  in  man  I  find  it  not, 

1  almost  weary  of  my  earthly  lot, 

My  life-strings  are  dried  up  with  burning  pain."- 
Thou  find'st  it  not  ?     I  pray  thee  look  again, 


Sonnets. 

Look  inward  through  the  depths  of  thine  own  soul ; 
How  is  it  with  thee  ?     Art  thou  sound  and  whole  ? 
Doth  narrow  search  show  thee  no  earthly  stain  ? 
BE  NOBLE!  and  the  nobleness  that  lies 
In  other  men,  sleeping  but  never  dead. 
Will  rise  in  majesty  to  meet  thine  own ; 
Then  wilt  thou  see  it  gleam  in  many  eyes, 
Then  will  pure  light  around  thy  path  be  shed, 
And  thou  wilt  nevermore  be  sad  and  lone. 


TO  • 

DEEM  it  no  Sodom-fruit  of  vanity, 

Or  fickle  fantasy  of  unripe  youth 

Which  ever  takes  the  fairest  shows  for  truth, 

That  I  should  wish  my  verse  beloved  of  thee  ; 

'Tis  love's  deep  thirst  which  may  not  quenched  be. 

There  is  a  gulf  of  longing  and  unrest, 

A  wild  love-craving  not  to  be  represt. 

Whereto,  in  all  our  hearts,  as  to  the  sea, 

The  streams  of  feeling  do  forever  flow. 

Therefore  it  is  that  thy  well-meted  praise 

Falleth  so  shower-like  and  fresh  on  me, 

Filling  those  springs  which  else  had  sunk  full  low, 

Lost  in  the  dreary  desert-sands  of  woe, 

Or  parched  by  passion's  fierce  and  withering  blaze. 

VIM. 

MIGHT  I  but  be  beloved,  and,  O  most  fair 
And  perfect-ordered  soul,  beloved  of  thee, 
How  should  I  feel  a  cloud  of  earthly  care, 
If  thy  blue  eyes  were  ever  clear  to  me  ? 
O  woman's  love!     O  flower  most  bright  and  rare? 
That  blossom'st  brightest  in  extremest  need, 
Woe,  woe  is  me !  that  thy  so  precious  seed 
Is  ever  sown  by  Fancy's  changeful  air, 
And  grows  sometimes  in  poor  and  barren  hearts, 
Who  can  be  little  even  in  the  light 
Of  thy  meek  holiness — while  souls  more  great 
Are  left  to  wander  in  a  starless  night, 
Praying  unheard — and  yet  the  hardest  parts 
Befit  those  best  who  best  can  cope  with  Fate. 

IX. 

WRY  should  we  ever  weary  of  this  life  ? 
Our  souls  should  widen  ever,  not  contract. 


Sonnets. 

Grow  stronger,  and  not  harder,  in  the  strife 
Filling  each  moment  with  a  noble  act ; 
If  we  live  thus,  of  vigor  all  compact, 
Doing  our  duty  to  our  fellow-men, 
And  striving  rather  to  exalt  our  race 
Than  our  poor  selves,  with  earnest  hand  or  pen 
We  shall  erect  our  names  a  dwelling-place 
Which  not  all  ages  shall  cast  clown  agen; 
Offspring  of  Time  shall  then  be  born  each  hour, 
Which  as  of  old,  earth  lovingly  shall  guard, 
To  live  forever  in  youth's  perfect  flower, 
And  guide  her  future  children  Heavenward. 


GREEN    MOUNTAINS. 

YE  mountains,  that  far  off  lift  up  your  heads. 

Seen  dimly  through  their  canopies  of  blue, 

The  shade  of  my  unrestful  spirit  sheds 

Distance-created  beauty  over  you ; 

I  am  not  well  content  with  this  far  view; 

How  may  I  know  what  foot  of  loved-one  treads 

Your  rock  moss-grown  and  sun-dried  torrent  beds  ? 

We  should  love  all  things  better,  if  we  knew 

What  claims  the  meanest  have  upon  our  hearts : 

Perchance  even  now  some  eye,  that  would  be  bright 

To  meet  my  own,  looks  on  your  mist-robed  forms ; 

Perchance  your  grandeur  a  deep  joy  imparts 

To  souls  that  have  encircled  mine  with  light — 

O  brother-heart,  with  thee  my  spirit  warms ! 

XI. 

MY  friend,  adown  Life's  valley,  hand  in  hand, 

With  grateful  change  of  grave  and  merry  speech 

Or  song,  our  hearts  unlocking  each  to  each, 

We'll  journey  onward  to  the  silent  land ; 

And  when  stern  Death  shall  loose  that  loving  band, 

Taking  in  his  cold  hand  a  hand  of  ours, 

The  one  shall  strew  the  other's  grave  with  flowers, 

Nor  shall  his  heart  a  moment  be  unmanned. 

My  friend  and  brother!  if  thou  goest  first, 

Wilt  thou  no  more  re-visit  me  below  ? 

Yea,  when  my  heart  seems  happy,  causelessly 

And  swells,  not  dreaming  why,  as  it  would  burst 

With  joy  unspeakable — my  soul  shall  know 

That  thou,  unseen,  are  bending  over  me. 


Sonnets. 

XII. 

VERSE  cannot  say  how  beautiful  thou  art, 
How  glorious  the  calmness  of  thine  eyes, 
Full  of  unconquerable  energies, 
Telling  that  thou  has  acted  well  thy  part. 
No  doubt  or  fear  thy  steady  faith  can  start, 
No  thought  of  evil  dare  come  nigh  to  thee. 
Who  hast  the  courage  meek  of  purity. 
The  self-stayed  greatness  of  a  loving  heart, 
Strong  with  serene,  enduring  fortitude ; 
Where'er  thou  art,  that  seems  thy  fitting  place, 
For  not  of  forms,  but  Nature,  art  thou  child  ; 
And  lowest  things  put  on  a  noble  grace 
When  touched  by  ye,  O  patient,  Ruth-like,  mild 
And  spotless  hands  of  earnest  womanhood. 

XIII. 

THE  soul  would  fain  its  loving  kindness  tell, 

But  custom  hangs  like  lead  upon  the  tongue ; 

The  heart  is  brimful,  hollow  crowds  among, 

When  it  finds  one  whose  life  and  thought  are  well ; 

Up  to  the  eyes  its  gushing  love  doth  swell, 

The  angel  cometh  and  the  waters  move, 

Yet  it  is  fearful  still  to  say  "  I  love," 

And  words  come  grating  as  a  jangled  bell. 

O  might  we  only  speak  but  what  we  feel. 

Might  the  tongue  pay  but  what  the  heart  doth  owe, 

Not  Heaven's  great  thunder,  when  deep  peal  on  peal, 

It  shakes  the  earth,  could  rouse  our  spirits  so, 

Or  to  the  soul  such  majesty  reveal. 

As  two  short  words  half-spoken  faint  and  low ! 


I  SAW  a  gate :  a  harsh  voice  spake  and  said, 
This  is  the  gate  of  Life ;"  above  was  writ, 

1  Leave  hope  behind,  all  ye  who  enter  it;" 
Than  shrank  my  heart  within  itself  for  dread  ; 
But  softer,  than  the  summer  rain  is  shed, 
Words  dropt  upon  my  soul,  and  they  did  say, 

'  Fear  nothing,  Faith  shall  save  thee,  watch  and  pray  !" 
So,  without  fear  I  lifted  up  my  head, 
And  lo  !    that  writing  was  not,  one  fair  word 
Was  carven  in  its  stead,  and  it  was  "  Love," 
Then  rained  once  more  those  sweet  tones  from  above 
With  healing  on  their  wings :  I  humbly  heard, 


Sonnets.  223 

I  am  the  Life,  ask  and  it  shall  be  given ! 
I  am  the  way,  by  me  ye  enter  Heaven !" 

xv. 

I  WOULD  not  have  this  perfect  love  of  ours 

Grow  from  a  single  root,  a  single  stem, 

Bearing  no  goodly  fruit,  but  only  flowers 

That  idly  hide  Life's  iron  diadem  : 

It  should  grow  alway  like  that  Eastern  tree 

Whose  limbs  take  root  and  spread  forth  constantly ; 

That  love  for  one,  from  which  there  doth  not  spring 

Wide  love  for  all,  is  but  a  worthless  thing. 

Not  in  another  world,  as  poets  prate, 

Dwell  we  apart,  above  the  tide  of  things, 

High  floating  o'er  earth's  clouds  on  faery  wings ; 

But  our  pure  love  doth  ever  elevate 

Into  a  holy  bond  of  brotherhood 

All  earthly  things,  making  them  pure  and  good. 

XVI. 

To  the  dark,  narrow  house  where  loved  ones  go, 
Whence  no  steps  outward  turn,  whose  silent  door 
None  but  the  sexton  knocks  at  any  more, 
Are  they  not  sometimes  with  us  yet  below? 
The  longings  of  the  soul  would  tell  us  so ; 
Although,  so  pure  and  fine  their  being's  essen«  , 
Our  bodily  eyes  are  witless  of  their  presence, 
Yet  not  within  the  tomb  their  spirits  glow, 
Like  wizard  lamps  pent  up,  but  whensoever 
With  great  thoughts  worthy  of  their  high  behests 
Our  souls  are  filled,  those  bright  ones  with  us  be, 
As,  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  his  angel  guests; — 

0  let  us  live  so  worthily,  that  never 

We  may  be  far  from  that  blest  company. 

XVII. 

1  FAIN  would  give  to  thee  the  loveliest  things. 
For  lovely  things  belong  to  thee  of  right, 
And  thou  hast  been  as  peaceful  to  my  sight. 

As  the  still  thoughts  that  summer  twilight  brings; 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thine  angel  wings 
O  let  me  live !  O  let  me  rest  in  thee, 
Growing  to  thee  more  and  more  utterly. 
Upbearing  and  upborn,  till  outward  things 
Are  only  as  they  share  in  thee  a  part ! 
Look  kindly  on  me,  let  thy  holy  eyes 


224  Sonnets. 

Bless  me  from  the  deep  fulness  of  thy  heart ; 
So  shall  my  soul  in  its  right  strength  arise. 
And  nevermore  shall  pine  and  shrink  and  start. 
Safe-sheltered  in  thy  full  souled  sympathies. 

XVIII. 

MUCH  I  had  mused  of  Love,  and  in  my  soul 

There  was  one  chamber  where  I  dared  not  look, 

So  much  its  dark  and  dreary  voidness  shook 

My  spirit,  feeling  that  I  was  not  whole : 

All  my  deep  longings  flowed  toward  one  goal 

For  long,  long  years,  but  were  not  answered, 

Till  hope  was  drooping,  Faith  well-nigh  stone-dead. 

And  I  was  still  a  blind,  earth-delving  mole ; 

Yet  did  I  know  that  God  was  wise  and  good, 

And  would  fulfil  my  being  late  or  soon ; 

Nor  was  such  thought  in  vain,  for,  seeing  thee, 

Great  Love  rose  up,  as,  o'er  a  black  pine  wood, 

Round,  bright,  and  clear,  upstarteth  the  full  moon, 

Filling  my  soul  with  glory  utterly. 

XIX. 

SAYEST  thou,  most  beautiful,  that  thou  wilt  wear 
Flowers  and  leafy  crowns  when  thou  art  old, 
And  that  thy  heart  shall  never  grow  so  cold 
But  they  shall  love  to  wreathe  thy  silvered  hair 
And  into  age's  snows  the  hope  of  spring-tide  bear? 
O,  in  thy  childlike  wisdom's  moveless  hold 
Dwell  ever!  still  the  blessings  manifold 
Of  purity,  of  peace,  and  untaught  care 
For  other's  hearts,  around  thy  pathway  shed, 
And  thou  shait  have  a  crown  of  deathless  flowers 
To  glorify  and  guard  thy  blessed  head 
And  give  their  freshness  to  thy  life's  last  hours ; 
And,  when  the  Bridegroom  calleth,  they  shall  be 
A  wedding-garment  white  as  snow  for  thee. 

XX. 

POET!  who  sittest  in  thy  pleasant  room, 

Warming  thy  heart  with  idle  thoughts  of  love, 

And  of  a  holy  life  that  leads  above, 

Striving  to  keep  life's  spring-flowers  still  in  bloom, 

And  lingering  to  snuff  their  sweet  perfume — 

O,  there  were  other  duties  meant  for  thee, 

Than  to  sit  down  in  peacefulness  and  Be ! 

O,  there  are  brother-hearts  that  dwell  in  gloom, 


Sonnets.  225 

Souls  loathsome,  foul  and  black  with  daily  sin, 
So  crusted  o'er  with  baseness,  that  no  ray 
Of  heaven's  blessed  light  may  enter  in ! 
Come  down,  then,  to  the  hot  and  dusty  way, 
And  lead  them  back  to  hope  and  peace  again — 
For,  save  in  Act,  thy  Love  is  all  in  vain. 

XXI. 

"  NO    MORE    BUT    SO  ?  " 

No  more  but  so  ?     Only  with  uncold  looks. 
And  with  a  hand  not  laggard  to  clasp  mine, 
Think'st  thou  to  pay  what  debt  of  love  is  thine  ? 
No  more  but  so  ?     Like  gushing  water-brooks, 
Freshening  and  making  green  the  dimmest  nooks 
Of  thy  friend's  soul  thy  kindliness  should  flow; 
But,  if  't  is  bounded  by  not  saying  "  no," 
1  can  find  more  of  friendship  in  my  books, 
All  lifeless  though  they  be,  and  more,  far  more 
In  every  simplest  moss,  or  flower,  or  tree; 
Open  to  me  thy  heart  of  heart's  deep  core, 
Or  never  say  that  I  am  dear  to  thee ; 
Call  me  not  Friend,  if  thou  keep  close  the  door 
That  leads  into  thine  inmost  sympathy. 

XXII. 
TO    A    VOICE    HEARD    IN    MOUNT     AUBURN. 

LIKE  the  low  warblings  of  a  leaf-hid  bird, 

Thy  voice  came  to  me  through  the  screening  trees, 

Singing  the  simplest,  long-known  melodies ; 

I  had  no  glimpse  of  thee,  and  yet  I  heard 

And  blest  thee  for  each  clearly  caroled  word  . 

I  longed  to  thank  thee,  and  my  heart  would  frame 

Mary  or  Ruth,  some  sisterly,  sweet  name 

For  thee,  yet  could  I  not  my  lips  have  stirred  ; 

I  knew  that  thou  wert  lovely,  that  thine  eyes 

Were  blue  and  downcast,  and  methought  large  tears, 

Unknown  to  thee,  up  to  their  lids  must  rise 

With  half-sad  memories  of  other  years, 

As  to  thyself  alone  thou  sangest  o'er 

Words  that  to  childhood  seemed  to  say  "  No  More!  " 

XXIII. 
ON    READING    SPENSER     AGAIN. 

DEAR,  gentle  Spenser!  thou  my  soul  dost  lead, 
A  little  child  again,  through  Fairy  land, 


226  Sonnets. 

By  many  a  bower  and  stream  of  golden  sand, 

And  many  a  sunny  plain  whose  light  doth  breed 

A  sunshine  in  my  happy  heart,  and  feed 

My  fancy  with  sweet  visions;  I  become 

A  knight,  and  with  my  charmed  arms  would  roam 

To  seek  for  fame  in  many  a  wondrous  deed 

Of  high  emprise — for  I  have  seen  the  light 

Of  Una's  angel's  face,  the  golden  hair 

And  backward  eyes  of  startled  Florimel ; 

And,  for  their  holy  sake  I  would  outdare 

A  host  of  cruel  Paynims  in  the  fight. 

Or  Archimage  and  all  the  powers  of  Hell. 

XXIV. 

LIGHT  of  mine  eyes !  with  thy  so  trusting  look. 

And  thy  sweet  smile  of  charity  and  love, 

That  from  a  treasure  well  uplaid  above, 

And  from  a  hope  in  Christ  its  blessing  took ; 

Light  of  my  heart !  which  when  it  could  not  brook 

The  coldness  of  another's  sympathy, 

Finds  ever  a  deep  peace  and  stay  in  thee, 

Warm  as  the  sunshine  of  a  mossy  nook ; 

Light  of  my  soul !  who  by  thy  saintliness 

And  faith  that  acts  itself  in  daily  life, 

Canst  raise  me  above  weakness,  and  canst  bless 

The  hardest  thraldom  of  my  earthly  strife — 

I  dare  not  say  how  much  thou  art  to  me 

Even  to  mvself — and  O,  far  less  to  thee ! 


SILENT  as  one  who  treads  on  new-fallen  snow, 

Love  came  upon  me  ere  I  was  aware ; 

Not  light  of  heart,  for  there  was  troublous  care 

Upon  his  eyelids,  drooping  them  full  low. 

As  with  sad  memory  of  a  healed  woe ; 

The  cold  rain  shivered  in  his  golden  hair. 

As  if  an  outcast  lot  had  been  his  share, 

And  he  seemed  doubtful  whither  he  should  go  : 

Then  fell  he  on  my  neck,  and,  in  my  breast 

Hiding  his  face,  awhile  sobbed  bitterly, 

As  half  in  grief  to  be  so  long  distrest, 

And  half  in  joy  at  his  security — 

At  last  uplooking  from  his  place  of  rest, 

His  eyes  shone  blessedness  and  hope  on  me. 


Sonnets.  227 

XXVI. 

A  GENTLENESS  that  grows  of  steady  faith  ; 
A  joy  that  sheds  its  sunshine  everywhere; 
A  humble  strength  and  readiness  to  bear 
Those  burdens  which  strict  duty  ever  lay'th 
Upon  our  souls; — which  unto  sorrow  saith, 
Here  is  no  soil  for  thee  to  strike  thy  roots. 
Here  only  grow  those  sweet  and  precious  fruits 
Which  ripen  for  the  soul  that  well  obey'th ; 
A  patience  which  the  world  can  never  give 
Nor  take  away;  a  courage  strong  and  high, 
That  dares  in  simple  usefulness  to  live, 
And  without  one  sad  look  behind  to  die 
When  that  day  comes ;  these  tell  me  that  our  love 
Is  building  for  itself  a  home  above. 

XXVII. 

WHEN  the  glad  soul  is  full  to  overflow, 

Unto  the  tongue  all  power  it  denies, 

And  only  trusts  its  secret  to  the  eyes ; 

For,  by  an  inborn  wisdom,  it  doth  know 

There  is  no  other  eloquence  but  so ; 

And,  when  the  tongue's  weak  utterance  doth  suffice, 

Prisoned  within  the  body's  cell  it  lies. 

Remembering  in  tears  its  exiled  woe  : 

That  word  which  all  mankind  so  long  to  hear, 

Which  bears  the  spirit  back  to  whence  it  came, 

Maketh  this  sullen  clay  as  crystal  clear, 

And  will  not  be  enclouded  in  a  name  ; 

It  is  a  truth  which  we  can  feel  and  see, 

But  is  as  boundless  as  Eternity. 

XXVI II. 
TO    THE    EVENIN<;-STAR. 

WHEN  we  have  once  said  lowly  "  Evening-Star!" 
Words  give  no  more — for,  in  thy  silver  pride, 
Thou  shinest  as  nought  else  can  shine  beside. 
The  thick  smoke,  coiling  round  the  sooty  bar 
Forever,  and  the  customed  lamp-light  mar 
The  stillness  of  my  thought — seeing  things  glide 
So  samely : — then  I  ope  my  windows  wide. 
And  gaze  in  peace  to  where  thou  shin'st  afar, 
The  wind  that  comes  across  the  faint-white  snow 
So  freshly,  and  the  river  dimly  seen, 
Seem  like  new  things  that  never  had  been  so 


228  Sonnets. 

Before ;  and  thou  art  bright  as  thou  hast  been 
Since  thy  white  rays  put  sweetness  in  the  eyes 
Of  the  first  souls  that  loved  in  Paradise. 

XXIX. 
READING. 

AS  one  who  on  some  well-known  landscape  looks, 

Be  it  alone,  or  with  some  dear  friend  nigh, 

Each  day  beholdeth  fresh  variety. 

New  harmonies  of  hills,  and  trees  and  brooks- - 

So  it  is  with  the  worthiest  choice  of  books, 

And  oftenest  read  :  if  thou  no  meaning  spy, 

Deem  there  is  meaning  wanting  in  thine  eye; 

We  are  so  lured  from  judgment  by  the  crooks 

And  winding  ways  of  covert  fantasy, 

Or  turned  unwittingly  down  beaten  tracks 

Of  our  foregone  conclusions,  that  we  see, 

In  our  own  want,  the  writer's  misdeemed  lacks : 

It  is  with  true  books  as  with  Nature,  each 

New  day  of  living  doth  new  insight  teach. 

XXX. 

TO  — ,   AFTER  A    SNOW-STORM. 

BLUE  as  thine  eyes  the  river  gently  flows 
Between  his  banks,  which  far  as  eye  can  see, 
Are  whiter  than  aught  else  on  earth  may  be, 
Save  inmost  thoughts  that  in  thy  soul  repose; 
The  trees,  all  crystalled  by  the  melted  snows, 
Sparkle  with  gems  and  silver,  such  as  we 
In  childhood  saw  'mong  groves  of  Faerie, 
And  the  dear  skies  are  sunny-blue  as  those  ; 
Still  as  thy  heart,  when  next  mine  own  it  lies 
In  love's  full  safety,  is  the  bracing  air; 
The  earth  is  all  enwrapt  with  draperies 
Snow-white  as  that  pure  love  might  choose  to  wear 
O  for  one  moment's  look  into  thine  eyes, 
To  share  the  joy  such  scene  would  kindle  there ' 

XXXI. 

THROUGH  suffering  and  sorrow  thou  has  passed 
To  show  us  what  a  woman  true  may  be : 
They  have  not  taken  sympathy  from  thee, 
Nor  made  thee  any  other  than  thou  wast ; 
Save  as  some  tree,  which,  in  a  sudden  blast, 
Sheddeth  those  blossoms,  that  are  weakly  grown, 


Sonnets. 

Upon  the  air,  but  keepeth  every  one 

Whose  strength  gives  warrant  of  good  fruit  at  last : 

So  thou  hast  shed  some  blooms  of  gayety, 

But  never  one  of  steadfast  cheerfulness; 

Nor  hath  thy  knowledge  of  adversity 


229 


W: 


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"TUB:  KIVEK  GENTLY  FLOWS  BETWEEN  HIS  HANKS." 

Robbed  thee  of  any  faith  in  happiness, 
But  rather  cleared  thine  inner  eyes  to  see 
How  many  simple  ways  there  are  to  bless. 
1840. 

XXXII. 

WHAT  were  I,  Love,  if  I  were  stript  of  thee, 
If  thine  eves  shut  me  out,  whereby  I  live, 


230  Sonnets. 

Thou,  who  unto  my  calmed  soul  dost  give 
Knowledge,  and  truth,  and  holy  Mystery, 
Wherein  Truth  mainly  lies  for  those  who  see 
Beyond  the  earthly  and  the  fugitive, 
Who  in  the  grandeur  of  the  soul  believe, 
And  only  in  the  Infinite  are  free  ? 
Without  thee  I  were  naked,  bleak  and  bare 
As  yon  dead  cedar  on  the  sea-cliff's  brow ; 
And  nature's  teachings,  which  come  to  me  now 
Common  and  beautiful  as  light  and  air. 
Would  be  as  fruitless  as  a  stream  which  still 
Slips  through  the  wheel  of  some  old  ruined  mill. 

1841. 

XXXI II. 
IMPATIENCE    AND    REPROOF. 

YES,  1  have  felt  a  weariness  of  soul, 
A  shaking  of  my  loveful  faith  in  man, 
Jostling  with  souls  that  ne'er  beyond  life's  span 
Have  glimpsed,  to  whom  this  empty  earth  is  goal 
And  starting-place,  and  death  the  dreadful  whole ; 
But  as,  within  the  parlor's  glare,  at  night, 
Amid  loud  laugh,  and  converse  vain  and  light, 
Sudden  without  is  heard  the  thunder's  roll, 
Deep-toned  and  infinite,  with  sad  reproof, — 
So,  when  my  love  and  faith  in  man  are  shaken, 
Great,  inborn  thoughts,  that  will  not  keep  aloof, 
Within  my  soul  like  those  far  thunders,  waken, 
Growing  and  growing,  till  its  depths  are  dinned 
With  the  sad  sense  of  having  deadly  sinned. 

1841. 

XXXIV. 

REFORMERS. 

IF  ye  have  not  the  one  great  lesson  learned, 

Which  grows  in  leaves,  tides  in  the  mighty  sea, 

And  in  the  stars  eternally  hath  burned, 

That  only  full  obedience  is  free, — 

If  ye  in  pride  your  true  birthright  have  spurned, 

Or,  for  a  mess  of  pottage,  beggarly 

Have  sold  it,  how,  in  Truth's  name,  have  ye  earned 

The  holy  right  to  fight  for  Liberty? 

Be  free,  and  then  our  God  will  give  a  sword 

Wherefore  Orion's  belt  were  not  too  bright; 


Sonnets.  231 

There  shall  be  power  in  your  lightest  word, 
To  make  weak  Falsehood,  pierced  with  arrowy  light, 
Writhe,  dying  of  her  own  most  foul  disease, 
Within  her  churches  and  her  palaces ! 

1841. 

xxxv. 

THE  FIKRV  TRIAL. 

THE  hungry  rlame  hath  never  yet  been  hot 

To  him  who  won  his  name  and  crown  of  fire; 

But  it  doth  ask  a  stronger  soul  and  higher 

To  bear,  not  longing  for  a  prouder  lot, 

Those  martyrdoms  whereof  the  world  knows  not, — 

Hope  sneaped  with  frosty  scorn,  the  faith  of  youth 

Wasted  in  seeming  vain  defence  of  Truth. 

Greatness  o'ertopt  with  baseness,  and  fame  got 

Too  late: — Vet  this  most  bitter  task  was  meant 

For  those  right  worthy  in  such  cause  to  plead, 

And  therefore  God  sent  poets,  men  content 

To  live  in  humbleness  and  body's  need. 

If  they  may  tread  the  path  where  Jesus  went. 

And  sow  one  grain  of  Love's  eternal  seed. 

1841. 

xxxvi. 

GREAT  Truths  are  portions  of  the  soul  of  man ; 

Great  souls  are  portions  of  Eternity ; 

Each  drop  of  blood,  that  e'er  through  true  heart  ran 

With  lofty  message,  ran  for  thee  and  me ; 

For  God's  law,  since  the  starry  song  began, 

Hath  been,  and  still  forevermore  must  be, 

That  every  deed  which  shall  outlast  Time's  span 

Must  goad  the  soul  to  be  erect  and  free ; 

Slave  is  no  word  of  deathless  lineage  sprung, — 

Too  many  noble  souls  have  thought  and  died. 

Too  many  mighty  poets  lived  and  sung, 

And  our  good  Saxon,  from  lips  purified 

With  martyr-fire,  throughout  the  world  hath  rung 

Too  long  to  have  God's  holy  cause  denied. 

1841. 

XXXVII. 

I  ASK  not  for  those  thoughts,  that  sudden  leap 
From  being's  sea,  like  the  isle-seeming  Kraken, 


232  Sonnets. 

With  whose  great  rise  the  ocean  all  is  shaken 

And  a  heart-tremble  quivers  through  the  deep; 

Give  me  that  growth  which  some  perchance  deem  sleep, 

Wherewith  the  steadfast  coral-stems  uprise, 

Which,  by  the  toil  of  gathering  energies, 

Their  upward  way  into  clear  sunshine  keep, 

Until,  by  Heaven's  sweetest  influences, 

Slowly  and  slowly  spreads  a  speck  of  green 

Into  a  pleasant  island  in  the  seas, 

Where,  mid  tall  palms,  the  cane-roofed  home  is  seen, 

And  wearied  men  shall  sit  at  sunset's  hour, 

Hearing  the  leaves  and  loving  God's  dear  power. 

1841. 

XXXVIII. 

TO ,  ON  HER  HIRTH-DAY. 

MAIDEN,  when,  such  a  soul  as  thine  is  born, 
The  morning-stars  their  ancient  music  make, 
And,  joyful,  once  again  their  song  awake, 
Long  silent  now  with  melancholy  scorn ; 
And  thou,  not  mindless  of  so  blest  a  morn, 
By  no  least  deed  its  harmony  shall  break, 
But  shalt  to  that  high  chime  thy  footsteps  take, 
Through  life's  most  darksome  passes,  unforlorn  ; 
Therefore  from  thy  pure  faith  thou  shalt  not  fall, 
Therefore  shalt  thou  be  ever  fair  and  free, 
And,  in  thine  every  motion,  musical 
As  summer  air,  majestic  as  the  sea, 
A  mystery  to  those  who  creep  and  crawl 
Through  Time,  and  part  it  from  Eternity. 

1841. 

XXXIX. 

MY  Love,  I  have  no  fear  that  thou  shouldst  die ; 

Albeit  I  ask  no  fairer  life  than  this, 

Whose  numbering-clock  is  still  thy  gentle  kiss. 

While  Time  and  Peace  with  hands  enlocked  fly, — 

Yet  care  I  not  where  in  Eternity 

We  live  and  love,  well  knowing  that  there  is 

No  backward  step  for  those  who  feel  the  bliss 

Of  Faith  as  their  most  lofty  yearnings  high  : 

Love  hath  so  purified  my  heart's  strong  core, 

Meseems  I  scarcely  should  be  startled,  even, 

To  find,  some  morn,  that  thou  hadst  gone  before  , 


Sonnets.  233 

Since,  with  thy  love,  this  knowledge  too  was  given, 
Which  each  calm  day  doth  strengthen  more  and  more, 
That  they  who  love  are  but  one  step  from  Heaven. 

1841. 

XL. 

1  CANNOT  think  that  thou  shouldst  pass  away, 

Whose  life  to  mine  is  an  eternal  law, 

A  piece  of  nature  that  can  have  no  flaw, 

A  new  and  certain  sunrise  every  day ; 

Hut,  if  thou  art  to  be  another  ray 

About  the  Son  of  Life,  and  art  to  live 

Free  from  all  of  thee  that  was  fugitive, 

The  debt  of  Love  1  will  more  fully  pay, 

Not  downcast  with  the  thought  of  thee  so  high, 

But  rather  raised  to  be  a  nobler  man, 

And  more  divine  in  my  humanity, 

As  knowing  that  the  waiting  eyes  which  scan 

My  life  are  lighted  by  a  purer  being, 

And  ask  meek,  calm-browed  deeds,  with  it  agreeing. 

1 84 1 . 


THE  HAVEN. 

INTO  the  unruffled  shelter  of  thy  love 

My  bark  leapt  homeward  from  a  rugged  sea, 

And  furled  its  sails,  and  dropped  right  peacefully 

Hope's  anchor,  quiet  as  a  nestled  dove  : 

Thou  givest  me  all  that  can  the  true  soul  move 

To  nobleness,—  a  clear  simplicity, 

That,  in  the  humblest  man  to-day,  can  see 

Theme  for  high  rhyme  as  ever  poet  wove, — 

A  noiseless  love  that  makes  things  common  rare, 

And  custom-weary  toil  with  heaven  rife, — 

A  faith  that  finds  great  meanings  everywhere, 

That,  to  the  soul's  high  level,  raiseth  life, 

And  puts  in  eyes,  that  could  but  dimly  see, 

The  calm,  vast  presence  of  Eternity. 

1841. 

XLIT. 
RESOLVE. 

IN  very  truth,  thou  never  art  away, 

Though  miles  between  us  cheat  mine  outward  sense ; 


234  Sonnets. 

For  I  do  feel  thee,  both  by  night  and  day, 

A  hope  fulfilled,  a  starry  influence, 

That  floweth  through  my  most  forgetful  deed, 

And  maketh  crystal  every  part  of  me, 

Sowing  the  common  earth  with  golden  seed, 

Bright  as  if  dropped  down  from  the  Galaxy : 

In  sooth,  when  we  have  seemed  most  far  divided, 

I  inly  felt  we  were  most  truly  near, 

For  then  a  light  from  thy  great  love  hath  glided, 

Through  all  that  desert  space,  to  give  me  cheer, 

And,  as  light  only  where  it  strikes  we  see, 

Men  shall  know  this  in  my  nobility. 

1841. 

XLIII. 

THERE  never  yet  was  flower  fair  in  vain, 

Let  classic  poets  rhyme  it  as  they  will ; 

The  seasons  toil  that  it  may  blow  again, 

And  summer's  heart  doth  feel  its  every  ill; 

Nor  is  a  true  soul  ever  born  for  naught ; 

Wherever  any  such  hath  lived  and  died, 

There  hath  been  something  for  true  freedom  wrought. 

Some  bulwark  levelled  on  the  evil  side : 

Toil  on,  then,  Greatness !  thou  art  in  the  right, 

However  narrow  souls  may  call  thee  wrong ; 

Be  as  thou  wouldst  be  in  thine  own  clear  sight, 

And  so  thou  wilt  in  all  the  world's  ere  long; 

For  worldings  cannot,  struggle  as  they  may, 

From  man's  great  soul  one  great  thought  hide  away. 

XLIV. 
SUB     PONDERE   CRESCIT. 

THE  hope  of  Truth  grows  stronger,  day  by  day; 
I  hear  the  soul  of  Man  around  me  waking, 
Like  a  great  sea,  its  frozen  fetters  breaking, 
And  flinging  up  to  heaven  its  sunlit  spray, 
Tossing  huge  continents  in  scornful  play, 
And  crushing  them,  with  din  of  grinding  thunder, 
That  makes  old  emptiness  stare  in  wonder ; 
The  memory  of  a  glory  passed  away 
Lingers  in  every  heart,  as,  in  the  shell, 
Ripples  the  bygone  freedom  of  the  sea, 
And,  every  hour,  new  signs  of  promise  tell 
That  the  great  soul  shall  once  again  be  free, 


Sonnets. 

For  high,  and  yet  more  high,  the  murmurs  swell 
Of  inward  strife  for  truth  and  liberty. 

1841. 

XLV. 
TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  KEATS. 

GREAT  soul,  thou  sittest  with  me  in  my  room, 
Uplifting  me  with  thy  vast,  quiet  eyes, 
On  whose  full  orbs,  with  kindly  lustre,  lies 
The  twilight  warmth  of  ruddy  ember-gloom : 
Thy  clear,  strong  tones  will  oft  bring  sudden  bloom 
Of  hope  secure,  to  him  who  lonely  cries, 
Wrestling  with  the  young  poet's  agonies, 
Neglect  and  scorn,  which  seem  a  certain  doom ; 
Yes !  the  few  words  which,  like  great  thunder-drops, 
Thy  large  heart  down  to  earth  shook  doubtfully, 
Thrilled  by  the  inward  lightning  of  its  might, 
Serene  and  pure,  like  gushing  joy  of  light, 
Shall  track  the  eternal  chords  of  Destiny, 
After  the  moon-led  pulse  of  ocean  stops. 

1841. 


THK    POET. 

POET!  thou  art  most  wealthy,  being  poor; 
For  are  not  thine  the  only  earthly  ears 
Made  rich  with  golden  music  of  the  spheres? 
Hast  thou  not  snowy  wings  whereon  to  soar 
Through  the  wide  air  of  after  and  before, 
And  set  thee  high  among  thy  crowned  peers? 
Hath  any  man  such  joys  as  thy  deep  tears, 
Or  eyes  like  thine  to  pierce  great  nature's  core? 
Thou  hast  the  fairy  coin,  which,  in  wrong  hands, 
Is  merely  stones  and  leaves, — in  thine,  true  gold; 
Thou  art  the  very  strength  of  all  men's  shields ; 
By  divine  right,  art  monarch  of  all  lands ; 
And  there  is  none  but  willing  tribute  yields, 
Of  worth  too  precious  to  be  bought  or  sold. 

1841. 

XLVII. 

BELOVED,  in  the  noisy  city  here, 

The  thought  of  thee  can  make  all  turmoil  cease ; 


236  Sonnets. 

Around  my  spirit,  folds  thy  spirit  clear 

Its  still,  soft  arms,  and  circles  it  with  peace ; 

There  is  no  room  for  any  doubt  or  fear 

In  souls  so  overfilled  with  love's  increase, 

There  is  no  memory  of  the  bygone  year 

Hut  growth  in  heart's  and  spirit's  perfect  ease  : 

How  hath  our  love,  half  nebulous  at  first, 

Rounded  itself  into  a  full-orbed  sun ! 

How  have  our  lives  and  wills,  (as  haply  erst 

They  were,  ere  this  forgetfulness  begun,) 

Through  all  their  earthly  distantness  outburst, 

And  melted,  like  two  rays  of  light,  in  one! 

1841. 

XLV11I. 

FULL  many  noble  friends  my  soul  hath  known, 

Women  and  men,  who  in  my  memory 

Have  sown  such  beauty  as  can  never  die ; 

And  many  times,  when  I  seem  all  alone, 

Within  my  heart  I  call  up,  one  by  one, 

The  joys  I  shared  with  them,  the  unlaced  hours 

Of  laughing  thoughts,  that  came  and  went  like  flowers, 

Or  higher  argument,  Apollo's  own  : 

Those  listening  eyes  that  gave  nobility 

To  humblest  verses  writ  and  read  for  love. 

Those  burning  words  of  high  democracy, 

Those  doubts  that  through  the  vague  abyss  would  rove 

And  lean  o'er  chasms  that  took  away  the  breath, — 

When  I  forget  them,  may  it  be  in  death ! 


XLIX 

How  oft  do  I  live  o'er  that  blissful  time 
When  first  I  found  thy  love  within  my  breast, 
Like  the  first  violet  in  April's  prime, 
Born  a  full  flower,  more  fair  than  all  the  rest, 
And  richer  with  the  early  dew  of  rhyme  ! 
Till  then,  I  felt  my  heart  was  but  a  guest 
In  the  broad  world,  but  now  there  is  no  clime 
Where  it  as  rightful  sovereign  may  not  rest : 
Wherever  Nature  even  a  weed  doth  plant, 
There  it  the  fulness  of  delight  may  win  ; 
No  dead  or  living  thing  will  let  it  want, 
None  but  whose  heart  will  freelv  take  it  in ; 


Sonnets.  237 

For  Love  hath  made  it  now  wise  Nature's  child, 
And  from  her  arms  it  cannot  be  exiled. 


L. 

SLOW-OPENING  flower  of  the  summer  morn, — 
Blithe  quietness  of  sun-delighted  de?v', — 
Green  inland  oceans  of  unrippling  corn, — 
Deep  thoughtfulness  of  never-wrinkled  blue. 
Whose  high  eternal  silence  seemeth  born 
For  the  lone  moon  and  stars  to  wander  through, — 
Sunset, — and  all  the  wreaths  by  Nature  worn, 
And  momently  thrown  by  for  beauties  new, — 
My  heart  grows  fragrant  while  on  you  I  look, 
And  murmurs  to  itself,  and  feels  at  ease, 
And  trembles,  like  a  sunny  birch-tree  shook 
In  rustling  sparkles  by  a  warm  noon-breeze; 
Yet,  when  I  see  my  Love,  my  heart  runs  o'er 
With  sympathies  and  strengths  undreamed  before, 

1842. 

LI. 


MARY,  since  first  I  knew  thee,  to  this  hour. 

My  love  hath  deepened,  with  my  wiser  sense 

Of  what  in  Woman  is  to  reverence; 

Thy  clear  heart,  fresh  as  e'er  was  forest-flower, 

Still  opens  more  to  me  its  beauteous  dower ; — 

But  let  praise  hush, — Love  asks  no  evidence 

To  prove  itself  well-placed ;  we  know  not  whence 

It  gleans  the  straws  that  thatch  its  humble  bower: 

We  can  but  say  we  found  it  in  the  heart, 

Spring  of  all  sweetest  thoughts,  arch-foe  of  blame, 

Sower  of  flowers  in  the  dusty  mart, 

Pure  vestal  of  the  poet's  holy  flame, — 

This  is  enough,  and  we  have  done  our  part 

If  we  but  keep  it  spotless  as  it  came. 


OUR  love  is  not  a  fading,  earthly  flower; 
Its  winged  seed  dropt  down  from  Paradise, 
And,  nurst  by  day  and  night,  by  sun  and  shower, 
Doth  momently  to  fresher  beauty  rise  : 


Sonnets. 

To  us  the  leafless  autumn  is  not  bare, 

Nor  winter's  rattling  boughs  lack  lusty  green, 

Our  summer  hearts  make  summer's  fulness,  where 

No  leaf,  or  bud,  or  blossom  may  be  seen  : 

For  nature's  life  in  love's  deep  life  doth  lie. 

Love, — whose  forgetfulness  is  beauty's  death. 

Whose  mystic  key  these  cells  of  Thou  and  I 

Into  the  infinite  freedom  openeth. 

And  makes  the  body's  dark  and  narrow  grate 

The  wide-flung  leaves  of  Heaven's  palace-gate, 

.842. 

I. in. 

THANKFULNESS, 

THERE  is  no  thankfulness  more  deep  than  this,  — 

To  love  and  love  with  ever-glad  increase, 

To  nestle  in  the  heart  with  fluttering  bliss 

And  think  that  now  is  the  full  tide  of  peace  ; 

Yet  still  to  find,  with  each  sun-circled  hour. 

A  higher  right  to  love,  unhoped  before, 

A  fuller  insight,  a  serener  power, 

That  widens  down  the  soul's  unfathomed  con- : 

To  feel  that  we  are  blest  is  thankfulness, 

And  thereby  with  exulting  faith  to  know 

That  every  human  heart  its  kind  must  bless 

With  love,  which,  garnered  up,  rusts  into  wo.\ 

But,  freely  given,  always  turns  again, 

And,  for  our  flowers,  brings  us  ripened  grain. 


LIV. 

IN    ABSENCE. 

THESE  rugged,  wintry  days  I  scarce  could  bear, 

Did  I  not  know,  that,  in  the  early  spring, 

When  wild  March  winds  upon  their  errands  sing, 

Thou  wouldst  return,  bursting  on  this  still  air, 

Like  those  same  winds,  when,  startled  from  their  lair, 

They  hunt  up  violets,  and  free  swift  brooks 

From  icy  cares,  even  as  thy  clear  looks 

Bid  my  heart  bloom,  and  sing,  and  break  all  care  : 

When  drops  with  welcome  rain  the  April  day, 

My  flowers  shall  find  their  April  in  thine  eyes, 

Save  there  the  rain  in  dreamy  clouds  doth  stay, 

As  loath  to  fall  out  of  those  happy  skies ; 


Sonnets.  239 

Yet  sure,  my  love,  thou  art  most  like  to  May, 
That  comes  with  steady  sun  when  April  dies. 
1843- 


WENDELL    PHILLIPS. 

HE  stood  upon  the  world's  broad  threshold;  wide 

The  din  of  battle  and  of  slaughter  rose; 

He  saw  (iod  stand  upon  the  weaker  side. 

That  sank  in  seeming  loss  before  its  foes; 

Many  there  were  who  made  great  haste  and  sold 

I'nto  the  cunning  enemies  their  swords; 

He  scorned  their  gifts  of  fame,  and  power  and  gold, 

And,  underneath  their  soft  and  flowery  words. 

Heard  the  cold  serpent  hiss ;  therefore  he  went 

And  humbly  joined  him  to  the  weaker  part, 

Fanatic  named,  and  fool,  yet  well  content 

So  he  could  be  the  nearer  to  God's  heart 

And  feel  its  solemn  pulses  sending  blood 

Through  all  the  wide-spread  veins  of  endless  good. 


THE    STREET. 

THEY  pass  me  by  like  shadows,  crowds  on  crowds, 

Dim  ghosts  of  men,  that  hover  to  and  fro, 

Hugging  their  bodies  around  them,  like  thin  shrouds 

Wherein  their  souls  were  buried  long  ago ; 

They  trampled  on  their  youth,  and  faith,  and  love, 

They  cast  their  hope  of  human-kind  away, 

With  Heaven's  clear  messages  they  madly  strove. 

And  conquered, — and  their  spirits  turned  to  clay  : 

Lo !  how  they  wander  round  the  world,  their  grave, 

Whose  ever-gaping  maw  by  such  is  fed, 

Gibbering  at  living  men,  and  idly  rave, 

"  We,  only,  truly  live,  but  ye  are  dead." 

Alas!  poor  fools,  the  anointed  eye  may  trace 

A  dead  soul's  epitaph  in  every  face ! 

I, vi  I. 

I  GRIEVE  not  that  ripe  Knowledge  takes  away 
The  charm  that  Nature  to  my  childhood  wore, 
For,  with  that  insight,  cometh,  day  by  day, 
A  greater  bliss  than  wonder  was  before ; 
The  real  doth  not  clip  the  poet's  wings, — 
To  win  the  secret  of  a  weed's  plain  heart 


240  Sonnets. 

Reveals  some  clue  to  spiritual  things, 
And  stumbling  guess  becomes  firm-footed  art : 
Flowers  are  not  Mowers  unto  the  poet's  eyes, 
Their  beauty  thrills  him  by  an  inward  sense ; 
He  knows  that  outward  seemings  are  but  lies, 
Or,  at  the  most,  but  earthly  shadows,  whence 
The  soul  that  looks  within  for  truth  may  guess 
The  presence  of  some  wondrous  heavenliness. 

I, VI  II. 

YE  who  behold  the  body  of  my  thought, 
Whose  minds  can  surfeit  on  an  outward  grace, 
Ye  learn  but  half  the  lesson  that  is  taught, 
Looking  no  deeper  down  than  Nature's  face ; 
Two  meanings  have  our  lightest  fantasies, 
One  of  the  flesh,  and  of  the  spirit  one, 
And  he  who  skips  the  latter  only  sees 
The  painter's  colors  and  the  sculptor's  stone  : 
Unfathomably  deep  are  all  good  things. 
Each  day  therefrom  the  soul  may  drink  its  fill, 
And  straight  a  clearer  truth  to  being  springs. 
The  self-renewing  fount  o'errunneth  still; 
For  the  unconscious  poet  can  but  write 
What  is  foretold  him  bv  the  Infinite. 


O,  HAPPY  childhood!  djar,  unthoughtful  years 
When  life  flowed  onward  like  a  rover  wind, 
Why  did  I  leave  your  peace  of  heart  behind 
To  plunge  me  in  this  sea  of  doubts  and  fears? 
Down,  foolish  sigh!  have  not  my  manhood's  tears 
Washed  off  the  scales  that  made  my  nature  blind, 
Letting  Truth's  growing  light  sure  passage  find 
Into  my  soul,  where  now  the  sky  half-clears? 
Thank  God  that  I  am  numbered  now  with  men. 
That  there  are  hearts  that  need  my  love  and  me. 
That  I  have  sorrows  now  to  make  me  ken 
My  strength  and  weakness,  and  my  right  to  be 
Brother  to  those,  the  outcast  and  the  poor, 
Driven  back  to  darkness  from  the  world's  proud  door! 


ON    MY    TWENTY-FOURTH     BIRTH-DAY,     FEBRUARY    22,     1X43 

Now  have  I  quite  passed  by  that  cloudy  If 
That  darkened  the  wild  hope  of  boyish  days. 
When  first  I  launched  mv  slender-sided  skiff 


Sonnets  on   fRames.  241 

Upon  the  wide  sea's  dim,  unsounded  ways; 

Now  doth  Love's  sun  my  soul  with  splendor  fill, 

And  Hope  hath  struggled  upward  into  Power, 

Soft  Wish  is  hardened  into  sinewy  Will, 

And  Longing  into  Certainty  doth  tower: 

The  love  of  beauty  knoweth  no  despair ; 

My  heart  would  break,  if  1  should  dare  to  doubt, 

That  from  the  Wrong,  which  makes  its  dragon's  lair 

Here  on  the  Earth,  fair  Truth  shall  wander  out, 

Teaching  mankind,  that  Freedom's  held  in  fee 

Only  by  those  who  labor  to  "sot  free. 


TO  j.    k.    <;IUDINGS. 

(iiUDixcis,  far  rougher  names  than  thine  have  grown 

Smoother  than  honey  on  the  lips  of  men ; 

And  thou  shalt  aye  be  honorably  known, 

A  is  one  who  bravely  used  his  tongue  and  pen, 

As  best  befits  a  freeman, — even  for  those, 

To  whom  our  Law's  unblushing  front  denies 

A  right  to  plead  against  the  life-long  woes 

Which  are  the  Negro's  glimpse  of  Freedom's  skies : 

Fear  nothing  and  hope  all  things,  as  the  Right 

Alone  may  do  securely ;  every  hour 

The  thrones  of  Ignorance  and  ancient  Night 

Lose  somewhat  of  their  long-usurped  power, 

And  Freedom's  lightest  word  can  make  them  shiver 

With  a  base  dread  that  clings  to  them  forever. 


SONNETS  ON    NAMES. 


A   LlLV  with  its  frail  cup  filled  with  dew, 
Down-bending  modestly,  snow-white  and  pale, 
Shedding  faint  fragrance  round  its  native  vale, 
Minds  me  of  thee,  Sweeth  Edith,  mild  and  true, 
And  of  thy  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue. 
Thy  heart  is  fearful  as  a  startled  hare, 
Yet  hath  in  it  a  fortitude  to  bear 
For  Love's  sake,  and  a  gentle  faith  which  grew 
Of  Love  :  need  of  a  stay  whereon  to  lean, 
Felt  in  thyself,  hath  taught  thee  to  uphold 
And  comfort  others,  and  to  give,  unseen. 


242  Sonnets  on 

The  kindness  thy  still  love  cannot  withhold  : 
Maiden,  I  would  my  sister  thou  hadst  been, 
That  round  thee  I  my  guarding  arms  might  fok 

II. 

ROSE. 

MY  ever-lightsome,  ever-laughing  Rose, 
Who  always  speakest  first  and  thinkest  last, 
Thy  full  voice  is  as  clear  as  bugle-blast ; 
Right  from  the  ear  down  to  the  heart  it  goes 
And  says  "  I'm  beautiful!  as  who  but  knows  ?  ' 
Thy  name  reminds  me  of  old  romping  days. 
Of  kisses  stolen  in  dark  passage-ways, 
Or  in  the  parlor,  if  the  mother-nose 
Gave  sign  of  drowsy  watch.      I  wonder  where 
Are  gone  thy  tokens,  given  with  a  glance 
So  full  of  everlasting  love  till  morrow, 
Or  a  day's  endless  grieving  for  the  dance 
Last  night  denied,  backed  with  a  lock  of  hair. 
That  spake  of  broken  hearts  and  deadly  sorrow. 


MARY. 

DARK,  hair,  dark  eyes — not  too  dark  to  be  deep 
And  full  of  feeling,  yet  enough  to  glow 
With  fire  when  angered  ;  feelings  never  slow, 
But  which  seem  rather  watching  to  forthleap 
From  her  full  breast ;  a  gently-flowing  sweep 
Of  words  in  common  talk,  a  torrent-rush, 
Whenever  through  her  soul  swift  feelings  gush, 
A  heart  less  ready  to  be  gay  than  weep, 
Yet  cheerful  ever,  a  calm  matron-smile. 
That  bids  God  bless  you ;  a  chaste  simpleness, 
With  somewhat,  too,  of  "proper  pride,"  in  dress; 
This  portrait  to  my  mind's  eye  came,  the  while 
I  thought  of  thee,  the  well-grown  woman  Mary, 
YVhilome  a  gold-haired,  laughing  little  fairy. 


CAROLINE. 

A  STAIDNESS  sobers  o'er  her  pretty  face, 
Which  something  but  ill-hidden  in  her  eyes, 
And  a  quaint  look  about  her  lips  denies ; 
A  lingering  love  of  girlhood  you  can  trace 


X'JEnvoi.  243 

In  her  checked  laugh  and  half-restrained  pace; 

And,  when  she  bears  herself  most  womanly, 

It  seems  as  if  a  watchful  mother's  eye 

Kept  down  with  sobering  glance  her  childish  grace : 

Yet  oftentimes  her  nature  gushes  free 

As  water  long  held  back  by  little  hands, 

Within  a  pump,  and  let  forth  suddenly, 

Until,  her  task  remembering,  she  stands 

A  moment  silent,  smiling  doubtfully, 

Then  laughs  aloud  and  scorns  her  hated  bands. 


ANNE. 

THERE  is  a  pensiveness  in  quiet  Anne, 

A  mournful  drooping  of  the  full  gray  eye. 

As  if  she  had  shook  hands  with  misery. 

And  known  some  care  since  her  short  life  began 

Her  cheek  is  seriously  pale,  nigh  wan, 

And,  though  of  cheerfulness  there  is  no  lack, 

You  feel  as  if  she  must  be  dressed  in  black ; 

Yet  is  she  not  of  those  who,  all  they  can, 

Strive  to  be  gay,  and  striving,  seem  most  sad — 

Hers  is  not  grief,  but  silent  soberness ; 

You  would  be  startled  if  you  saw  her  glad, 

And  startled  if  you  saw  her  weep,  no  less ; 

She  walks  through  life,  as,  on  the  Sabbath  day, 

She  decorously  glides  to  church  to  pray. 


L'ENVOI. 

TO  M.    \V. 

WHETHER  my  heart  hath  wiser  grown  or  not, 

In  these  three  years,  since  I  to  thee  inscribed, 

Mine  own  betrothed,  the  firstlings  of  my  muse,— 

Poor  windfalls  of  unripe  experience, 

Young  buds  plucked  hastily  by  childish  hands 

Not  patient  to  await  more  full-blown  flowers, — 

At  least  it  hath  seen  more  of  life  and  men, 

And  pondered  more,  and  grown  a  shade  more  sad 

Yet  with  no  loss  of  hope  or  settled  trust 

In  the  benignness  of  that  Providence, 

Which  shapes  from  out  our  elements  awry 

The  grace  and  order  that  we  wonder  at, 

The  mystic  harmony  of  right  and  wrong, 


244  TL'iEnvoi. 

Both  working  out  His  wisdom  and  our  good : 
A  trust,  Beloved,  chiefly  learned  of  thee, 
Who  hast  that  gift  of  patient  tenderness. 
The  instinctive  wisdom  of  a  woman's  heart, 
Which,  seeing  Right,  can  yet  forgive  the  Wrong, 
And,  strong  itself  to  comfort  and  sustain, 
Vet  leans  with  full-confiding  piety 
On  the  great  Spirit  that  encircles  all. 

Less  of  that  feeling,  which  the  world  calls  love, 
Thou  findest  in  my  verse,  but  haply  more 
Of  a  more  precious  virtue,  born  of  that. 
The  love  of  God,  of  Freedom,  and  of  Man. 
Thou  knowest  well  what  these  three  years  have  been. 
How  we  have  filled  and  graced  each  other's  hearts, 
And  every  day  grown  fuller  of  that  bliss, 
Which,  even  at  first  seemed  more  than  we  could  bear, 
And  thou,  meantime,  unchanged,  except  it  be 
That  thy  large  heart  is  larger,  and  thine  eyes 
Of  palest  blue,  more  tender  with  the  lore 
Which  taught  me  first  how  good  it  was  to  love : 
And,  if  thy  blessed  name  occur  less  oft. 
Yet  thou  canst  see  the  shadow  of  thy  soul 
In  all  my  song,  and  art  well-pleased  to  feel 
That  I  could  ne'er  be  rightly  true  to  thee, 
If  I  were  recreant  to  higher  aims. 
Thou  didst  not  grant  to  me  so  rich  a  fief 
As  thy  full  love,  on  any  harder  tenure 
Than  that  of  rendering  thee  a  single  heart ; 
And  I  do  service  for  thy  queenly  gift 
Then  best,  when  I  obey  my  soul,  and  tread 
In  reverence  the  path  she  beckons  me. 

"I"  were  joy  enough, — if  I  could  think  that  life 
Were  but  a  barren  struggle  after  joy. — 
To  live,  and  love,  and  never  look  beyond 
The  fair  horizon  of  thy  bounteous  heart, 
Whose  sunny  circle  stretches  wide  enough 
For  me  to  find  a  heaped  contentment  in  ; 
To  do  naught  else  but  garner  every  hour 
My  golden  harvest  of  sweet  memories, 
And  count  my  boundless  revenues  of  smiles 
And  happy  looks,  and  words  so  kind  and  gentle 
That  each  doth  seem  the  first  to  give  thy  heart. - 
Content  to  let  mv  waveless  soul  flow  on, 


IL'lEnvot.  245 

Reflecting  but  the  spring-time  on  its  brink, 

And  thy  clear  spirit  bending  like  a  sky 

O'er  it, — secure  that  from  thy  virgin  hands 

My  brows  should  never  lack  their  dearest  wreath : 

But  life  hath  nobler  destinies  than  this, 

Which  but  to  strive  for  is  reward  enough, 

Which  to  attain  is  all  earth  gives  of  peace. 

Thou  art  not  of  those  niggard  souls,  who  deem 

That  Poesy  is  but  to  jingle  words, 

To  string  sweet  sorrows  for  apologies 

To  hide  the  bareness  of  unfurnished  hearts, 

To  prate  about  the  surfaces  of  things, 

And  make  more  threadbare  what  was  quite  worn  out : 

Our  common  thoughts  are  deepest,  and  to  give 

Such  beauteous  tones  to  these,  as  needs  must  take 

Men's  hearts  their  captives  to  the  end  of  time, 

So  that  who  hath  not  the  choice  gift  of  words 

Take  these  into  his  soul,  as  welcome  friends, 

To  make  sweet  music  of  his  joys  and  woes, 

And  be  all  Beauty's  swift  interpreters, 

Links  of  bright  gold  'twixt  Nature  and  his  heart. 

This  is  the  errand  high  of  Poesy. 

The  day  has  long  gone  by  wherein  't  was  thought 

That  men  were  greater  poets,  inasmuch 

As  they  were  more  unlike  their  fellow-men: 

The  poet  sees  beyond,  but  dwells  among, 

The  wearing  turmoil  of  our  work-day  life; 

His  heart  not  differs  from  another  heart, 

But  rather  in  itself  enfolds  the  whole 

Felt  by  the  hearts  about  him,  high  or  low, 

Hath  deeper  sympathies  and  clearer  sight 

And  is  more  like  a  human  heart  than  all  • 

His  larger  portion  is  but  harmony 

Of  heart,  the  all-potent  alchemy  that  turns 

The  humblest  things  to  golden  inspiration  ; 

A  loving  eye's  unmatched  sovereignty ; 

A  self-sustained,  enduring  humbleness; 

A  reverence  for  woman ;  a  deep  faith 

In  gentleness,  as  strength's  least  doubtful  proof ; 

And  an  electric  sympathy  with  love, 

Heaven's  first  great  message  to  all  noble  souls. 

But.  if  the  poet's  duty  be  to  tell 
His  fellow-men  their  beauty  and  their  strength, 
And  show  them  the  deep  meaning  of  their  souls, 


246  X'Envot. 

He  also  is  ordained  to  higher  things; 

He  must  reflect  his  race's  struggling  heart, 

And  shape  the  crude  conceptions  of  his  age. 

They  tell  us  that  our  land  was  made  for  song. 

With  its  huge  rivers  and  sky-piercing  peaks 

Its  sea-like  lakes  and  mighty  cataracts, 

Its  forests  vast  and  hoar,  and  prairies  wide. 

And  mounds  that  tell  of  wondrous  tribes  extinct ; 

But  poesy  springs  not  from  rocks  and  woods ; 

Her  womb  and  cradle  are  the  human  heart, 

And  she  can  find  a  nobler  theme  for  song 

In  the  most  loathsome  man  that  blasts  the  sight, 

Than  in  the  broad  expanse  of  sea  and  shore 

Between  the  frozen  deserts  of  the  poles. 

All  nations  have  their  message  from  on  high, 

Each  the  Messiah  of  some  central  thought, 

For  the  fulfilment  and  delight  of  man  : 

One  has  to  teach  that  labor  is  divine ; 

Another,  Freedom  ;  and  another,  Mind  ; 

And  all,  that  God  is  open-eyed  and  just, 

The  happy  centre  and  calm  heart  of  all. 

Are,  then,  our  woods,  our  mountains,  and  our 

streams, 

Needful  to  teach  our  poets  how  to  sing  ? 
(),  maiden  rare,  far  other  thoughts  were  ours, 
When  we  have  sat  by  ocean's  foaming  marge. 
And  watched  the  waves  leap  roaring  on  the  rocks 
Than  young  Leander  and  his  Hero  had, 
Gazing  from  Sestos  to  the  other  shore. 
The  moon  looks  down  and  ocean  worships  her, 
Stars  rise  and  set,  and  seasons  come  and  go 
Even  as  they  did  in  Homer's  elder  time, 
But  we  behold  them  not  with  Grecian  eyes  : 
Then  they  were  types  of  beauty  and  of  strength, 
But  now  of  freedom,  unconfined  and  pure, 
Subject  alone  to  Order's  higher  law. 
What  cares  the  Russian  serf  or  Southern  slave. 
Though  we  should  speak  as  man  spake  never  yet 
Of  gleaming  Hudson's  broad  magnificence, 
Or  green  Niagara's  never-ending  roar  ? 
Our  country  hath  a  gospel  of  her  own 
To  preach  and  practice  before  all  the  world, — 
The  freedom  and  divinity  of  man, 
The  glorious  claims  of  human  brotherhood, — 


TL'  Envoi.  247 

Which  to  pay  nobly,  as  a  freeman  should, 

Gains  the  sole  wealth  that  will  not  fly  away. 

And  the  soul's  fealty  to  none  but  God. 

These  are  realities,  which  make  the  shows 

Of  outward  Nature,  be  they  ne'er  so  grand. 

Seem  small  and  worthless,  and  contemptible. 

These  are  the  mountain-summits  for  our  bard:;, 

Which  stretch  far  upward  into  heaven  itself, 

And  give  such  wide-spread  and  exulting  view 

Of  hope,  and  faith,  and  onward  destiny, 

That  shrunk  Parnassus  to  a  molehill  dwindles. 

Our  new  Atlantis,  like  a  morning-star, 

Silvers  the  murk  face  of  slow-yielding  Night, 

The  herald  of  a  fuller  truth  than  yet 

Hath  gleamed  upon  the  upraised  face  of  Man 

Since  the  earth  glittered  in  her  stainless  prime,-- 

Of  a  more  glorious  sunrise  than  of  old 

Drew  wondrous  melodies  from  Memnon  huge. 

Yea,  draws  them  still,  though  now  he  sits  waist-deep 

In  the  engulfing  flood  of  whirling  sand, 

And  looks  across  the  wastes  of  endless  gray. 

Sole  wreck,  where  once  his  hundred-gated  Thcbe 

Pained  with  her  mighty  hum  the  calm,  blue  heaven : 

Shall  the  dull  stone  say  grateful  orizons. 

And  we  till  noonday  bar  the  splendor  out, 

Lest  it  reproach  and  chide  our  sluggard  hearts, 

Warm-nestled  in  the  down  of  Prejudice, 

And  be  content,  though  clad  with  angel-wings, 

Close-clipped,  to  hop  about  from  perch  to  perch, 

In  paltry  cages  of  dead  men's  dead  thoughts  ? 

O,  rather,  like  the  sky-lark,  soar  and  sing, 

And  let  our  gushing  songs  befit  the  dawn 

And  sunrise,  and  the  yet  unshaken  dew 

Brimming  the  chalice  of  each  full-blown  hope, 

Whose  blithe  front  turns  to  greet  the  growing  day! 

Never  had  poets  such  high  call  before, 

Never  can  poets  hope  for  higher  one, 

And  if  they  be  but  faithful  to  their  trust. 

Earth  will  remember  them  with  love  and  joy, 

And,  O,  far  better,  God  will  not  forget. 

For  he  who  settles  Freedom's  principles 

Writes  the  death-warrant  of  all  tyranny ; 

Who  speaks  the  truth  stabs  Falsehood  to  the  heart, 

And  his  mere  word  makes  despots  tremble  more 

Than  ever  Brutus  with  his  dagger  could. 


248  Summer  Storm. 

Wait  for  no  hints  from  waterfalls  or  woods. 

Nor  dream  that  tales  of  red  men,  brute  and  tierce, 

Repay  the  finding  of  this  Western  World, 

Or  needed  half  the  globe  to  give  them  birth : 

Spirit  supreme  of  Freedom  !  not  for  this 

Did  great  Columbus  tame  his  eagle  soul 

To  jostle  with  the  daws  that  perch  in  courts ; 

Not  for  this,  friendless,  on  an  unknown  sea, 

Coping  with  mad  waves  and  more  mutinous  spirits 

Battled  he  with  the  dreadful  ache  at  heart 

Which  tempts,  with  devilish  subtleties  of  doubt, 

The  hermit  of  that  loneliest  solitude, 

The  silent  desert  of  a  great  New  Thought ; 

Though  loud  Niagara  were  to-day  struck  dumb, 

Vet  would  this  cataract  of  boiling  life 

Rush  plunging  on  and  on  to  endless  deeps. 

And  utter  thunder  till  the  world  shall  cease, — 

A  thunder  worthy  of  the  poet's  song, 

And  which  alone  can  fill  it  with  true  life. 

The  high  evangel  to  our  country  granted 

Could  make  apostles,  yea,  with  tongues  of  fire, 

Of  hearts  half-darkened  back  again  to  clay ! 

'T  is  the  soul  only  that  is  national, 

And  he  who  pays  true  loyalty  to  that 

Alone  can  claim  the  wealth  of  patriotism. 

Beloved !  if  I  wander  far  and  oft 
From  that  which  I  believe,  and  feel,  and  know, 
Thou  wilt  forgive,  not  with  a  sorrowing  heart. 
But  with  a  strengthened  hope  of  better  things ; 
Knowing  that  1,  though  often  blind  and  false 
To  those  I  love,  and,  (),  more  false  than  all 
Unto  myself,  have  been  most  true  to  thee, 
And  that  whoso  in  one  thing  hath  been  true 
Can  be  as  true  in  all.      Therefore  thy  hope 
May  yet  not  prove  unfruitful,  and  thy  love 
Meet,  day  by  day,  with  less  unworthy  thanks, 
Whether,  as  now,  we  journey  hand  in  hand 
Or,  parted  in  the  body,  yet  are  one 
In  spirit  and  the  love  of  holy  things. 


SUMMER  STORM. 
UNTREMULOUS  in  the  river  clear, 
Toward  the  sky's  image,  hangs  the  imaged  bridge ; 
So  still  the  air  that  1  can  hear 


Summer  Storm. 

The  slender  clarion  of  the  unseen  midge; 

Out  of  the  stillness,  with  a  gathering  creep, 
Like  rising  wind  in  leaves,  which  now  decreases, 
Now  lulls,  now   swells,  and  all  the  while  increases, 

The  huddling  trample  of  a  drove  of  sheep 


THE  nunnuNG  TRAMPLE  OF 

A  DROVE  OF  SHKEP." 


Tilts  the  loose  planks,  and  then  as  gradually  ceases 
In  dust  on  the  other  side;  life's  emblem  deep, 

A  confused  noise  between  two  silences, 

Finding  at  last  in  dust  precarious  peace. 

On  the  wide  marsh  the  purple-blossomed  grasses 
Soak  up  the  sunshine ;  sleeps  the  brimming  tide, 


250  Summer  Storm. 

Save  when  the  wedge-shaped  wake  in  silence  passes 
Of  some  slow  water-rat,  whose  sinuous  glide 

Wavers  the  long  green  sedge's  shade  from  side  to  side ; 

Hut  up  the  west,  like  a  rock-shivered  surge, 

Climbs  a  great  cloud  edged  with  sun-whitened  spray 

Huge  whirls  of  foam  boil  toppling  o'er  its  verge, 
And  falling  still  it  seems,  and  yet  it  climbs  alway. 

Suddenly  all  the  sky  is  hid 

As  with  the  shutting  of  a  lid. 
One  by  one  great  drops  are  falling 

Doubtful  and  slow, 
Down  the  pane  they  are  crookedly  crawling 

And  the  wind  breathes  low; 
Slowly  the  circles  widen  on  the  river, 

Widen  and  mingle,  one  and  all ; 
Here  and  there  the  slenderer  flowers  shiver, 

Struck  by  an  icy  rain-drop's  fall. 

Now  on  the  hills  I  hear  the  thunder  mutter, 

The  wind  is  gathering  in  the  west ; 
The  upturned  leaves  rirst  whiten  and  flutter, 

Then  droop  to  a  fitful  rest ; 
Up  from  the  stream  with  sluggish  flap 

Struggles  the  gull  and  floats  away ; 
Nearer  and  nearer  rolls  the  thunder-clap, — 

We  shall  not  see  the  sun  go  down  to-day : 
Now  leaps  the  wind  on  the  sleepy  marsh, 

And  tramples  the  grass  with  terrified  feet, 
The  startled  river  turns  leaden  and  harsh, 

You  can  hear  the  quick  heart  of  the  tempest  beat. 

Look!  look!  that  livid  flash! 
And  instantly  follows  the  rattling  thunder, 
As  if  some  cloud-crag  split  asunder. 

Fell,  splintering  with  a  ruinous  crash, 
On  the  Earth,  which  crouches  in  silence  under; 

And  now  a  solid  gray  wall  of  rain 
Shuts  off  the  landscape,  mile  by  mile  ; 

For  a  breath's  space  I  see  the  blue  wood  again. 
And  ere  the  next  heart-beat,  the  wind-hurled  pile. 

That  seemed  but  now  a  league  aloof, 

Bursts  rattling  o'er  the  sun-parched  roof ; 
Against  the  windows  the  storm  comes  dashing. 


Summer  Storm.  251 

Through  tattered  foliage  the  hail  tears  crashing, 

The  blue  lightning  Hashes, 

The  rapid  hail  clashes, 
The  white  waves  are  tumbling, 

And  in  one  baffled  roar, 
Like  the  toothless  sea  mumbling 

A  rock-bristled  shore, 
The  thunder  is  rumbling 
And  crashing  and  crumbling, — 
Will  silence  return  nevermore? 

Hush!  Still  as  death, 
The  tempest  holds  his  breath 
As  from  a  sudden  will ; 
The  rain  stops  short,  but  from  the  eaves 
You  see  it  drop,  and  hear  it  from  the  leaves, 
All  is  so  bodingly  still ; 

Again,  now,  now,  again 
Plashes  the  rain  in  heavy  gouts, 
The  crinkled  lightning 
Seems  ever  brightening, 

And  loud  and  long 
Again  the  thunder  shouts 

His  battle-song, — 
One  quivering  flash, 
One  wildering  crash. 
Followed  by  silence  dead  and  dull, 
As  if  the  cloud,  let  go, 
Leapt  bodily  below 

To  whelm  the  earth  in  one  mad  overthrow, 
And  then  a  total  lull. 

Gone,  gone,  so  soon  ! 
No  more  my  half-crazed  fancy  there, 
Can  shape  a  giant  in  the  air, 
No  more  I  see  his  streaming  hair, 
The  writhing  portent  of  his  form  ; — 

The  pale  and  quiet  moon 
Makes  her  calm  forehead  bare, 
And  the  last  fragments  of  the  storm, 
Like  shattered  rigging  from  a  fight  at  sea. 
Silent  and  few,  are  drifting  over  me. 


252  IRcmembercD  /PMi5ic. 

REMEMBERED  MUSIC. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

THICK-RUSHING,  like  an  ocean  vast 

Of  bisons  the  far  prairie  shaking, 
The  notes  crowd  heavily  and  fast 
As  surfs,  one  plunging  while  the  last 

Draws  seaward  from  its  foamy  breaking. 

Or  in  low  murmurs  they  began, 
Rising  and  rising  momently, 
As  o'er  a  harp  /Eolian 
A  fitful  breeze,  .until  they  ran 
Up  to  a  sudden  ecstasy. 

And  then,  like  minute-drops  of  rain 

Ringing  in  water  silverly, 
They  lingering  dropped  and  dropped  again 
Till  it  was  almost  like  a  pain 

To  listen  when  the  next  would  be. 


SO  NT.. 


A  LILY  thou  wast  when  1  saw  thee  first, 
A  lily-bud  not  opened  quite. 
That  hourly  grew  more  pure  and  white, 
By  morning,  and  noontide,  and  evening  nursed  . 
In  all  of  nature  thou  hadst  thy  share; 
Thou  wast  waited  on 
By    the  wind  and  sun ; 
The  rain  and  the  dew  for  thee  took  care ; 
It  seemed  thou  never  couldst  be  more  fair. 

A  lily  thou  wast  when  I  saw  thee  first, 
A  lily-bud ;  but  (),  how  strange, 
How  full  of  wonder  was  the  change, 
When,  ripe  with  all  sweetness,  thy  full  bloom  burst 
How  did  the  tears  to  my  glad  eyes  start 
When  the  woman-flower 
Reached  its  blossoming  hour, 
And  I  saw  the  warm  deeps  of  thy  golden  heart ! 


Song.  253 

Glad  death  may  pluck  thee,  but  never  before 
The  gold  dust  of  thy  bloom- divine 
Hath  dropped  from  thy  heart  into  mine, 
To  quicken  its  faint  germs  of  heavenly  lore ; 

For  no  breeze  comes  nigh  thee  but  carries  away 
Some  impulses  bright 
Of  fragrance  and  light, 

Which  fall  upon  souls  that  are  lone  and  astray, 
To  plant  fruitful  hopes  of  the  flower  of  day. 


ODK. 


IN"  the  old  days  of  a\ve  and  keen-eyed  wonder, 

The  Poet's  song  with  blood-warm  truth  was  rife ; 
He  saw  the  mysteries  which  circle  under 

The  outward  shell  and  skin  of  daily  life. 
Nothing  to  him  were  lleeting  time  and  fashion, 

His  soul  was  led  by  the  eternal  law; 
There  was  in  him  no  hope  of  fame,  no  passion, 

But  with  calm,  godlike  eyes  he  only  saw, 
He  did  not  sigh  o'er  heroes  dead  and  buried. 

Chief-mourner  at  the  (iolden  Age's  hearse, 
Nor  deem  that  souls  whom  Charon  grim  had  ferried 

Alone  were  fitting  themes  of  epic  verse; 
He  could  believe  the  promise  of  to-morrow. 

And  feel  the  wondrous  meaning  of  to-day ; 
He  had  a  deeper  faith  in  holy  sorrow 

Than  the  world's  seeming  loss  could  take  away. 
To  know  the  heart  of  all  things  was  his  duty, 
All  things  did  sing  to  him  to  make  him  wise, 
And,  with  a  sorrowful  and  conquering  beauty, 
The  soul  of  all  looked  grandly  from  his  eyes. 
He  gazed  on  all  within  him  and  without  him, 

He  watched  the  flowing  of  Time's  steady  tide, 
And  shapes  of  glory  floated  all  about  him 

And  whispered  to  him,  and  he  prophesied. 
Than  all  men  he  more  fearless  was  and  freer, 

And  ail  his  brethren  cried  with  one  accord, — 
•'  Behold  the  holy  man!     Behold  the  Seer! 

Him  who  hath  spoken  with  the  unseen  Lord! ' 
He  to  his  heart  with  large  embrace  had  taken 

The  universal  sorrow  of  mankind, 
And,  from  that  root,  a  shelter  never  shaken, 


254 


The  tree  of  wisdom  grew  with  sturdy  rind. 
He  could  interpret  well  the  wondrous  voices 

Which  to  the  calm  and  silent  spirit  come  ; 
He  knew  that  the  One  Soul  no  more  rejoices 

In  the  star's  anthem  than  the  insect's  hum. 
He  in  his  heart  was  ever  meek  and  humble, 

And  yet  with  kingly  pomp  his  numbers  ran. 
As  he  foresaw  how  all  things  false  should  crumbk- 

Before  the  free,  uplifted  soul  of  man  : 
And,  when  he  was  made  full  to  overflowing 

With  all  the  loveliness  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Out  rushed  his  song,  like  molten  iron  glowing, 

To  show  God  sitting  by  the  humblest  hearth. 
With  calmest  courage  he  was  ever  ready 

To  teach  that  action  was  the  truth  of  thought, 
And,  with  strong  arm  and  purpose  firm  and  steady, 

The  anchor  of  the  drifting  world  he  wrought. 
So  did  he  make  the  meanest  man  partaker 

Of  all  his  brother-gods  unto  him  gave; 
All  souls  did  reverence  him  and  name  him  Maker, 

And  when  he  died  heaped  temples  on  his  grave. 
And  still  his  deathless  words  of  light  are  swimming 

Serene  throughout  the  great  deep  infinite 
Of  human  soul,  unwaning  and  undimming, 

To  cheer  and  guide  the  mariner  at  night. 

II. 

But  now  the  Poet  is  an  empty  rhymer 

Who  lies  with  idle  elbow  on  the  grass, 
And  fits  his  singing,  like  a  cunning  timer, 

To  all  men's  prides  and  fancies  as  they  pass. 
Not  his  the  song,  which,  in  its  metre  holy. 

Chimes  with  the  music  of  the  eternal  stars, 
Humbling  the  tyrant,  lifting  up  the  lowly, 

And  sending  sun  through  the  soul's  prison-bars. 
Maker  no  more,  —  O  no!  unmaker  rather, 

For  he  unmakes  who  doth  not  all  put  forth 
The  power  given  by  our  loving  Father 

To  show  the  body's  dross,  the  spirit's  worth. 
Awake  !  great  spirit  of  the  ages  olden  ! 

Shiver  the  mists  that  hide  thy  starry  lyre, 
And  let  man's  soul  be  yet  again  beholden 

To  thee  for  wings  to  soar  to  her  desire. 
O,  prophesy  no  more  to-morrow's  splendor, 

Be  no  more  shamefaced  to  speak  out  for  Truth, 


©fre. 


255 


1  BUT    NOW  THE    POET    IS   AN    EMPTY 

KHYMKK   WHO  LIES  WITH   IDLE 

ELBOW    ON    THE    GRASS." 


Lay  on  her  altar  ail  the  gushings  tender, 

The  hope,  the  fire,  the  loving  faith  of  youth ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more  the  Maker's  coming, 

Say  not  his  onward  footsteps  thou  canst  hear 
In  the  dim  void,  like  to  the  awful  humming 

Of  the  great  wings  of  some  new-lighted  sphere ! 
O,  prophesy  no  more,  but  be  the  Poet ! 

This  longing  was  but  granted  unto  thee 
That,  when  all  beauty  thou  couldst  feel  and  know  it, 

That  beauty  in  its  highest  thou  couldst  be. 
O  thou  who  meanest  tost  with  sealike  longings, 

Who  dimly  hearest  voices  call  on  thee, 
Whose  soul  is  overfilled  with  mighty  throngings 

Of  love,  and  fear,  and  glorious  agony, 
Thou  of  the  toil-strung  hands  and  iron  sinews 

And  soul  by  Mother  Earth  with  freedom  fed, 
In  whom  the  hero-spirit  yet  continues, 

The  old  free  nature  is  not  chained  or  dead, 
Arouse !  let  thy  soul  break  in  music-thunder, 

Let  loose  the  ocean  that  is  in  thee  pent, 
Pour  forth  thy  hope,  thy  fear,  thy  love,  thy  wonder, 

And  tell  the  age  what  all  its  signs  have  meant. 


256  ©De. 

Where'er  thy  vvildered  crowd  of  brethren  jostles, 

Where'er  there  lingers  but  a  shade  of  wrong, 
There  still  is  need  of  martyrs  and  apostles, 

There  still  are  texts  for  never-dying  song : 
From  age  to  age  man's  still  aspiring  spirit 

Finds  wider  scope  and  sees  with  clearer  eyes, 
And  thou  in  larger  measure  dost  inherit 

What  made  thy  great  forerunners  free  and  wise. 
Sit  thou  enthroned  where  the  Poet's  mountain 

Above  the  thunder  lifts  its  silent  peak, 
And  roll  thy  songs  down  like  a  gathering  fountain. 

They  all  may  drink  and  find  the  rest  they  seek. 
Sing !  there  shall  silence  grow  in  earth  and  heaven, 

A  silence  of  deep  awe  and  wondering ; 
For,  listening  gladly,  bend  the  angels,  even, 

To  hear  a  mortal  like  an  angel  sing. 


Among  the  toil-worn  poor  my  soul  is  seeking 

For  one  to  bring  the  Maker's  name  to  light, 
To  be  the  voice  of  that  almighty  speaking 

Which  every  age  demands  to  do  it  right. 
Proprieties  our  silken  bards  environ  ; 

He  who  would  be  the  tongue  of  this  wide  land 
Must  string  his  harp  with  chords  or  sturdy  iron 

And  strike  it  with  a  toil-embrowned  hand  ; 
One  who  hath  dwelt  with  nature  well  attended, 

Who  hath  learnt  wisdom  from  her  mystic  books. 
Whose  soul  with  all  her  countless  lives  hath  blended. 

So  that  all  beauty  awes  us  in  his  looks ; 
Who  not  with  body's  waste  his  soul  hath  pampered, 

Who  as  the  clear  northwestern  wind  is  free, 
Who  walks  with  Form's  observances  unhampered. 

And  follows  the  One  Will  obediently ; 
Whose  eyes,  like  windows  on  a  breezy  summit, 

Control  a  lovely  prospect  every  way ; 
Who  doth  not  sound  God's  sea  with  earthly  plummet. 

And  find  a  bottom  still  of  worthless  clay  ; 
Who  heeds  not  how  the  lower  gusts  are  working, 

Knowing  that  one  sure  wind  blows  on  above, 

And  sees,  beneath  the  foulest  faces  lurking, 
One  God-built  shrine  of  reverence  and  love ; 

Who  sees  all  stars  that  wheel  their  shining  marches 
Around  the  centre  fixed  of  Destiny, 

Where  the  encircling  soul  serene  o'erarches 


B  IRequfem.  257 

The  moving  globe  of  being  like  a  sky; 

Who  feels  that  God  and  Heaven's  great  deeps  are 

nearer 
Him  to  whose  heart  his  fellow-man  is  nigh, 

Who  doth  not  hold  his  soul's  own  freedom  dearer 
Than  that  of  all  his  brethren,  low  or  high  ; 

Who  to  the  Right  can  feel  himself  the  truer 
For  being  gently  patient  with  the  wrong, 

Who  sees  a  brother  in  the  evil-doer, 
And  finds  in  Love  the  heart's-blood  of  his  song; — 

This,  this  is  he  for  whom  the  world  is  waiting 
To  sing  the  beatings  of  its  mighty  heart, 

Too  long  hath  it  been  patient  with  the  grating 
Of  scrannel-pipes,  and  heard  it  misnamed  Art. 

To  him  the  smiling  soul  of  man  shall  listen, 
Laying  awhile  its  crown  of  thorns  aside, 

And  once  again  in  every  eye  shall  glisten 
The  glory  of  a  nature  satisfied. 

His  verse  shall  have  a  great  commanding  motion, 
Heaving  and  swelling  with  a  melody 

Learnt  of  the  sky,  the  river,  and  the  ocean, 
And  all  the  pure,  majestic  things  that  be. 

Awake,  then,  thou  !   we  pine  for  thy  great  presence 
To  make  us  feel  the  soul  once  more  sublime, 

We  are  of  far  too  infinite  an  essence 
To  rest  contented  with  the  lies  of  Time. 

Speak  out !  and  lo  !  a  hush  of  deepest  wonder 
Shall  sink  o'er  all  his  many-voiced  scene, 

As  when  a  sudden  burst  of  rattling  thunder 
Shatters  the  blueness  of  a  sky  serene. 


A    REQUIEM. 

Av,  pale  and  silent  maiden, 

Cold  as  thou  liest  there, 
Thine  was  the  sunniest  nature 

That  ever  drew  the  air, 
The  wildest  and  most  wayward. 

And  yet  so  gently  kind, 
Thou  seemedst  but  to  body 

A  breath  of  summer  wind. 

Into  the  eternal  shadow 

That  girds  our  life  around. 
Into  the  infinite  silence 


IRboccus. 

Wherewith  Death's  shore  is  bound, 
Thou  hast  gone  forth,  beloved ! 

And  1  were  mean  to  weep, 
That  thou  hast  left  Life's  shallows, 

And  dost  possess  the  Deep. 

Thou  liest  low  and  silent, 

Thy  heart  is  cold  and  still, 
Thine  eyes  are  shut  forever, 

And  Death  hath  had  his  will ; 
He  loved  and  would  have  taken, 

I  loved  and  would  have  kept, 
We  strove, — and  he  was  stronger, 

And  I  have  never  wept. 

Let  him  possess  thy  body, 

Thy  soul  is  still  with  me. 
More  sunny  and  more  gladsome 

Than  it  was  wont  to  be : 
Thy  body  was  a  fetter 

That  bound  me  to  the  flesh, 
Thank  God  that  it  is  broken, 

And  now  I  live  afresh ! 

Now  I  can  see  thee  clearly; 

The  dusky  cloud  of  clay, 
That  hid  thy  starry  spirit. 

Is  rent  and  blown  away : 
To  earth  I  give  thy  body, 

Thy  spirit  to  the  sky, 
I  saw  its  bright  wings  growing 

And  knew  that  thou  must  fly. 

Now  I  can  love  thee  truly, 

For  nothing  comes  between 
The  senses  and  the  spirit. 

The  seen  and  the  unseen ; 
Lifts  the  eternal  shadow. 

The  silence  burst  apart, 
And  the  soul's  boundless  future 

Is  present  in  my  heart. 


RHCECUS. 

GOD  sends  his  teachers  unto  every  age, 
To  every  clime,  and  every  race  of  men, 
With  revelations  fitted  to  their  growth 


iRbcccus.  259 

And  shape  of  mind,  nor  gives  the  realm  of  Truth. 
Into  the  selfish  rule  of  one  sole  race : 
Therefore  each  form  of  worship  that  hath  swayed 
The  life  of  man,  and  given  it  to  grasp 
The  master-key  of  knowledge,  reverence. 
Knfolds  some  germs  of  goodness  and  of  right ; 
Klse  never  had  the  eager  soul,  which  loathes 
The  slothful  down  of  pampered  ignorance, 
Found  in  it  even  a  moment's  fitful  rest. 

There  is  an  instinct  in  the  human  heart 
Which  makes  that  all  the  fables  it  hath  coined, 
To  justify  the  reign  of  its  belief 
And  strengthen  it  by  beauty's  right  divine. 
Veil  in  their  inner  cells  a  mystic  gift, 
Which,  like  the  hazel  twig,  in  faithful  hands, 
Points  surely  to  the  hidden  springs  of  truth. 
For,  as  in  nature  naught  is  made  in  vain, 
Hut  all  things  have  within  their  hull  of  use 
A  wisdom  and  a  meaning  which  may  speak 
Of  spiritual  secrets  to  the  ear 
Of  spirit ;  so,  in  whatsoe'er  the  heart 
Hath  fashioned  for  a  solace  to  itself, 
To  make  its  inspirations  suit  its  creed, 
And  from  the  niggard  hands  of  falsehood  wring 
Its  needful  food  of  truth,  there  ever  is 
A  sympathy  with  Nature,  which  reveals, 
Not  less  than  her  own  works,  pure  gleams  of  light 
And  earnest  parables  of  inward  lore. 
Here  now  this  fairy  legend  of  old  Greece, 
As  full  of  freedom,  youth  and  beauty  still 
As  the  immortal  freshness  of  that  grace 
Carved  for  all  ages  on  some  Attic  frieze. 

A  youth  named  Rhaictis,  wandering  in  the  wood. 
Saw  an  oid  oak  just  trembling  to  its  fall, 
And  feeling  pity  of  so  fair  a  tree, 
He  propped  its  gray  trunk  with  admiring  care, 
And  with  a  thoughtless  footstep  loitered  on. 
But,  as  he  turned,  he  heard  a  voice  behind 
That  murmured  "  Rhoecus!"      T  was  as  if  the  leaves 
Stirred  by  a  passing  breath,  had  murmured  it, 
And,  while  he  paused  bewildered,  yet  again 
It  murmured  "  Rha-cus!"  softer  than  a  breeze, 
He  started  and  beheld  with  dizzy  eyes 
What  seemed  the  substance  of  a  happy  dream 


260  IRbOCCUS. 

Stand  there  before  him,  spreading  a  warm  glow 
Within  the  green  glooms  of  the  shadowy  oak. 
It  seemed  a  woman's  shape,  yet  all  too  fair 
To  be  a  woman,  and  with  eyes  too  meek 
For  any  that  were  wont  to  mate  with  gods. 
All  naked  like  a  goddess  stood  she  there, 
And  like  a  goddess  all  too  beautiful 
To  feel  the  guilt-born  earthliness  of  shame. 

"  Rhoecus,  I  am  the  Dryad  of  this  tree," 

Thus  she  began,  dropping  her  low-toned  words 
Serene,  and  full,  and  clear,  as  drops  of  dew, 

"  And  with  it  I  am  doomed  to  live  and  die  ; 
The  rain  and  sunshine  are  my  caterers, 
Nor  have  I  other  bliss  than  simple  life ; 
Now  ask  me  what  thou  wilt,  that  I  can  give, 
And  with  a  thankful  joy  it  shall  be  thine," 

Then  Rhoccus,  with  a  flutter  at  the  heart, 
Yet,  by  the  promptings  of  such  beauty,  bold, 
Answered  :   "  What  is  there  that  can  satisfy 
The  endless  craving  of  the  soul  but  love  ? 
Give  me  thy  love,  or  but  the  hope  of  that 
Which  must  be  evermore  my  spirit's  goal." 
After  a  little  pause  she  said  again, 
But  with  a  glimpse  of  sadness  in  her  tone, 
"  I  give  it,  Rhcecus,  though  a  perilous  gift; 
An  hour  before  the  sunset  meet  me  here. " 
And  straightway  there  was  nothing  he  could  see 
But  the  green  glooms  beneath  the  shadowy  oak, 
And  not  a  sound  came  to  his  straining  ears 
But  the  low  trickling  rustle  of  the  leaves, 
And  far  away  upon  an  emerald  slope 
The  falter  of  an  idle  shepherd's  pipe. 

Now  in  those  days  of  simpleness  and  faith. 
Men  did  not  think  that  happy  things  were  dreams 
Because  they  overstepped  the  narro\\  bourne 
Of  likelihood,  but  reverently  deemed 
Nothing  too  wondrous  or  too  beautiful 
To  be  the  guerdon  of  a  daring  heart. 
So  Rhoecus  made  no  doubt  that  he  was  blest, 
And  all  along  unto  the  city's  gate 
Earth  seemed  to  spring  beneath  him  as  he  walked, 
The  clear,  broad  sky  looked  bluer  than  its  wont, 
And  he  could  scarce  believe  he  had  not  wings, 


KHCEUUS,   I  AM  THE  DHYAD  OF    THIS  TKEE. 


262  1RI3CCCUS. 

Such  sunshine  seemed  to  glitter  through  his  veins 
Instead  of  blood,  so  light  he  felt  and  strange. 

Young  Rhoecus  had  a  faithful  heart  enough. 
Hut  one  that  in  the  present  dwelt  too  much, 
And,  taking  with  blithe  welcome  what  so 'er 
Chance  gave  of  joy,  was  wholly  bound  in  that, 
Like  the  contented  peasant  of  a  vale, 
Deemed  it  the  world,  and  never  looked  beyond. 
So  haply  meeting  in  the  afternoon 
Some  comrades  who  were  playing  at  the  dice. 
He  joined  them,  and  forgot  all  else  beside. 


.SOME  COMKADES   WHO  WKHE    I'LAYIXC;    AT  THE   DICE. 

The  dice  were  rattling  at  the  merriest, 
And  Rhoecus,  who  had  met  but  sorry  luck, 
Just  laughed  in  triumph  at  a  happy  throw, 
When  through  the  room  there  hummed  a  yellow  bee 
That  buzzed  about  his  ear  with  down-drooped  legs 
As  if  to  light.      And  Rhcecus  laughed  and  said, 
Feeling  how  red  and  flushed  lv  was  with  loss, 
Hv  Venus !  does  he  take  me  for  a  rose  ?  " 


IRboccug.  26;, 

And  brushed  him  off  with  rough,  impatient  hand, 

But  still  the  bee  came  back,  and  thrice  again, 

Rhoecus  did  beat  him  off  with  growing  wrath. 

Then  through  the  window  flew  the  wounded  bee, 

And  Rhoecus,  tracking  him  with  angry  eyes, 

Saw  a  sharp  mountain-peak  of  Thessaly 

Against  the  red  disk  of  the  setting  sun, — 

And  instantly  the  blood  sank  from  his  heart, 

As  if  its  very  walls  had  caved  away. 

Without  a  word,  he  turned,  and,  rushing  forth, 

Ran  madly  through  the  city  and  the  gate, 

And  o'er  the  plain,  which  now  the  wood's  long  shade. 

By  the  low  sun  thrown  forward  broad  and  dim, 

Darkened  wellnigh  unto  the  city's  wall.    . 

Ouite  spent  and  out  of  breath  he  reached  the  tret.', 
And,  listening  fearfully,  he  heard  once  more 
The  low  voice  murmur  "  Rhoecus  !  "   close  at  hand  : 
Wherat  he  looked  around  him,  but  could  see 
Naught  but  the  deepening  glooms  beneath  the  oak. 
Then  sighed  the  voice,   "  O  Rhoecus!  nevermore 
Shalt  thou  behold  me  or  by  day  or  night, 
Me,  who  would  fain  have  blessed  thee  with  a  love 
More  ripe  and  bounteous  than  ever  yet 
Filled  up  with  nectar  any  mortal  heart: 
Hut  thou  didst  scorn  my  humble  messenger, 
And  sent'st  him  back  to  me  with  bruised  wings. 
We  spirits  only  show  to  gentle  eyes. 
We  ever  ask  an  undivided  love, 
And  he  who  scorns  the  least  of  Nature's  works 
Is  thenceforth  exiled  and  shut  out  from  all. 
Farewell !   for  thou  canst  never  see  me  more  !  " 

Then  Rhoecus  beat  his  breast,  and  groaned  aloud. 
And  cried,   "  Be  pitiful!   forgive  me  yet 
This  once,  and  I  shall  never  need  it  more?" 
Alas!  "  the  voice  returned.   "  't  is  thou  art  blind. 
Not  I  unmerciful;   I  can  forgive, 
But  have  no  skill  to  heal  thy  spirit's  eyes; 
Only  the  soul  hath  power  o'er  itself." 
With  that  again  there  murmured  "Nevermore!  ' 
And  Rhoecus  after  heard  no  other  sound, 
Except  the  rattling  of  the  oak's  crisp  leaves. 
Like  the  long  surf  upon  a  distant  shore, 
Raking  the  sea-worn  pebbles  up  and  down. 
The  night  had  gathered  round  him :  o'er  the  plain 


264  1RI.KCCU6. 

The  city  sparkled  with  its  thousand  lights, 
And  sounds  of  revel  fell  upon  his  ear 
Harshly  and  like  a  curse;  above,  the  sky, 
With  all  its  bright  sublimity  of  stars, 
Deepened  and  on  his  forehead  smote  the  breeze  : 
Beauty  \vas  all  around  him  and  delight, 
But  from  that  eve  he  was  alone  on  earth. 

So  in  our  youth  we  shape  out  noble  ends. 

And  worship  beauty  with  such  earnest  faith 

As  but  the  young,  unwasted  heart  can  know, 

And,  haply  wandering  into  some  good  deed. 

Win  for  our  souls  a  moment's  sight  of  Truth. 

Then  the  sly  world  runs  up  to  us  and  smiles, 

And  takes  us  by  the  hand  and  cries,   "  Well  met  ! 

Come  play  with  me  at  dice;  one  lucky  thixuv, 

And  all  my  power  and  glory  shall  be  thine; 

Stake  but  thy  heart  upon  the  other  side  !  " 

So  we  turn  gaily  in,  and  by  degrees 

Lose  all  our  nature's  broad  inheritance, — 

The  happiness  content  with  homely  things, — 

The  wise  simplicity  of  honest  faith, — 

The  unsuspecting  gentleness  of  heart, — 

The  open-handed  grace  of  Charity, — 

The  love  of  Beauty,  and  the  deathless  hope 

To  be  her  chosen  almoner  on  earth. 

And  we  rise  up  at  last  with  wrinkled  brows, 

Most  deeply-learned  in  the  hollow  game 

At  which  we  now  have  nothing  left  to  stake, 

Albeit  too  wise  to  stake  it,  if  we  had. 

But  Truth  will  never  let  the  heart  alone 

That  once  hath  sought  her,  sending  o'er  and  o'er 

Her  sweet  and  unreproachful  messengers 

To  lure  us  back  again  and  give  us  all, 

Which   we,  all  fresh  and  burning  in  the  game, 

Wherein  we  lose  and  lose  with  seeming  gain, 

Brush  off  impatiently  with  sharp  rebuff, 

Feeling  our  better  instincts  now  no  more 

But  as  reproaches  lacking  other  aim 

Than  to  abridge  our  little  snatch  of  bliss, 

And,  when  we  rouse  at  length,  and  feel  within 

The  stirring  of  our  ancient  love  again, 

Our  eyes  are  blinded  that  we  cannot  see 

The  fair  benignity  of  unveiled  Truth 


Columbus.  265 

That  plighted  us  its  holy  troth  erewhile 
Our  sun  is  setting .     we  are  just  too  late; 
And  so,  instead  of  lightening  by  our  lives 
The  general  burden  of  our  drooping  kind— 
Instead  of  being  named  in  aftertime 
With  grateful  reverence  as  men  who  talked 
With  spirits,  and  the  dreaded  secret  wrung 
From  out  the  loath  lips  of  the  sphinx  of  life, — 
Instead  of  being,  as  all  true  men  may, 
Part  of  the  memory  of  all  great  deeds, 
The  inspiration  of  all  time  to  come, 
We  linger  to  our  graves  with  empty  hearts, 
And  add  our  little  handful  to  the  soil 
As  valueless  and  frail  as  fallen  leaves. 


COLUMBUS. 

THK  cordage  creaks  and  rattles  in  the  wind, 

With  freaks  of  sudden  hush  ;  the  reeling  ?ea 

Now  thumps  like  solid  rock  beneath  the  stern, 

Now  leaps  with  clumsy  wrath,  strikes  short,  and,  falling 

Crumbled  to  whispery  foam,  slips  rustling  down 

The  broad  backs  of  the  waves,  which  jostle  and  crowd 

To  fling  themselves  upon  that  unknown  shore, 

Their  used  familiar  since  the  dawn  of  time, 

Wither  this  foredoomed  life — an  eminent  surge 

Chance-heaped  a  breath's  space  o'er  the  weltering  press, 

With  deeper  grip  clutching  the  tide's  green  mane 

And  later-weaned  from  the  mid-ocean's  breast, 

Vet  not  less  frail  than  the  individual  shape 

P>y  vanishing  water  worn— -is  guided  on 

To  sway  on  triumph's  hushed,  aspiring  poise 

<  >ne  glittering  moment,  then  to  break  fulfilled. 

How  lonely  is  the  sea's  perpetual  swing. 
The  melancholy  wash  of  endless  waves, 
The  sigh  of  some  grim  monster  undescribed, 
Fear-painted  on  the  canvas  of  the  dark, 
Shifting  on  his  uneasy  pillow  of  brine! 
Vet  night  brings  more  companions  than  the  day 
To  this  drear  waste;  new  constellations  burn, 
And  fairer  stars,  with  whose  calm  height  my  soul 
Finds  nearer  sympathy  than  with  my  herd 

<  )f  earthen  souls,  whose  vision's  scanty  ring 
Makes  me  its  prisoner  to  beat  my  wings 


266  Columbus. 

Against  the  cold  bars  of  their  unbelief, 
Knowing  in  vain  my  own  free  heaven  beyond. 
O  God!  this  world,  so  crammed  with  eager  life. 
That  comes  and  goes  and  wanders  back  to  silence- 
Like  the  idle  wind,  which  yet  man's  shaping  mind 
Can  make  his  drudge  to  swell  the  longing  sails 
Of  highest  endeavor, — this  mad.unthrift  world, 
Which,  every  hour,  throws  life  enough  away 
To  make  her  deserts  kind  and  hospitable, 
Lets  her  great  destinies  be  waved  aside 
By  smooth,  lip-reverent,  formal  infidels, 
Who  weigh  the  God  they  not  believe  with  gold, 
And  find  no  spot  in  Judas,  save  that  he, 
Driving  a  duller  bargain  than  he  ought, 
Saddled  his  guild  with  too  cheap  precedent. 
O  Faith !  if  thou  art  strong,  thine  opposite 
Is  mighty  also,  and  the  dull  fool's  sneer 
Hath  ofttimes  shot  chill  palsy  through  the  arm 
Just  lifted  to  achieve  its  crowning  deed, 
And  made  the  firm-based  heart,  that  would  have  quailed 
The  rack  or  fagot,  shudder  like  a  leaf 
Wrinkled  with  frost,  and  loose  upon  its  stem. 
The  wicked  and  the  weak,  by  some  dark  law. 
Have  a  strange  power  to  shut  and  rivet  down 
Their  own  horizon  round  us,  to  unwing 
Our  heaven-aspiring  visions,  and  to  blur 
With  surly  clouds  the  Future's  gleaming  peaks. 
Far  seen  across  the  brine  of  thankless  years. 
If  the  chosen  soul  could  never  be  alone 
In  deep  mid-silence,  open-doored  to  God. 
No  greatness  ever  had  been  dreamed  or  done ; 
Among  dull  hearts  a  prophet  never  grew ; 
The  nurse  of  full-grown  souls  is  solitude. 

The  old  world  is  effete;  there  man  with  man 

Jostles,  and,  in  the  brawl  for  means  to  live, 

Life  is  trod  under  foot, — Life,  the  one  block 

Of  marble  that's  vouchsafed  wherefrom  to  carve 

Our  great  thoughts,  white  and  godlike,  to  shine  down 

The  future,  Life,  the  irredeemable  block, 

Which  one  o'er-hasty  chisel-dint  oft  mars, 

Scanting  our  room  to  cut  the  features  out 

Of  our  full  hope,  so  forcing  us  to  crown 

With  a  mean  head  the  perfect  limbs,  or  leave 

The  god's  face  glowing  o'er  a  satyr's  trunk, 

Failure's  brief  epitaph. 


Columbus.  267 

Yes,  Europe's  world 

Reels  on  to  judgment ;  there  the  common  need, 
Losing  God's  sacred  use,  to  be  a  bond 
Twixt  Me  and  Thee,  sets  each  one  scowlingly 
O'er  his  o\vn  selfish  hoard  at  bay ;  no  state, 
Knit  strongly  with  eternal  fibres  up 
Of  all  men's  separate  and  united  weals, 
Self-poised  and  sole  as  stars,  yet  one  as  light, 
Holds  up  a  shape  of  large  Humanity 
To  which  by  natural  instinct  every  man 
Fays  loyalty  exulting,  by  which  all 
Mould  their  own  lives,  and  feel  their  pulses  filled 
With  the  red,  fiery  blood  of  the  general  life, 
Making  them  mighty  in  peace,  as  now  in  war 
They  are,  even  in  the  flush  of  victory,  weak, 
Conquering  that  manhood  which  should  them  subdue. 
And  what  gift  bring  I  to  this  untried  world? 
Shall  the  same  tragedy  be  played  anew, 
And  the  same  lurid  curtain  drop  at  last 
On  one  dread  desolation,  one  fierce  crash 
Of  that  recoil  which  on  its  makers  God 
Lets  Ignorance  and  Sin  and  Hunger  make, 
Early  or  late?     Or  shall  that  commonwealth 
Whose  potent  unity  and  concentric  force 
Can  draw  these  scattered  joints  and  parts  of  men 
Into  a  whole  ideal  man  once  more, 
Which  sucks  not  from  its  limbs  the  life  away, 
Hut  sends  it  flood-tide  and  creates  itself 
Over  again  m  every  citi/en, 
He  there  built  up?      For  me,  I  have  no  choice-; 
I  might  turn  back  to  other  destinies, 
For  one  sincere  key  opes  all  Fortune's  doors; 
Hut  whoso  answers  not  God's  earliest  call 
Forfeits  or  dulls  that  faculty  supreme 
Of  lying  open  to  his  genius 
Which  makes  the  wise  heart  certain  of  its  ends. 

Here  am  I ,  for  what  end  God  knows,  not  I , 
Westward  still  points  the  inexorable  soul : 
Here  am  I,  with  no  friend  but  the  sad  sea, 
The  beating  heart  of  this  great  enterprise, 
Which,  without  me,  would  stiffen  in  swift  death  ; 
This  have  I  mused  on,  since  mine  eye  could  first 
Among  the  stars  distinguish  and  with  joy 
Rest  on  that  God-fed  Pharos  of  the  north, 
On  some  blue  promontory  of  heaven  lighted 


268  Columbus. 

That  juts  far  out  into  the  upper  sea ; 

To  this  one  hope  my  heart  hath  clung  for  years, 

As  would  a  foundling  to  the  talisman 

Hung  round  his  neck  by  hands  he  knew  not  whose 

A  poor,  vile  thing  and  dross  to  all  beside, 

Yet  he  therein  can  feel  a  virtue  left 

By  the  sad  pressure  of  a  mother's  hand, 

And  unto  him  it  still  is  tremulous 

With  palpitating  haste  and  wet  with  tears, 

The  key  to  him  cf  hope  and  humanness, 

The  coarse  shell  of  life's  pearl,  Expectancy. 

This  hope  hath  been  to  me  for  love  and  fame, 

Hath  made  me  wholly  lonely  on  the  earth, 

Building  me  up  as  in  a  thick  ribbed  tower. 

Wherewith  enwalled  my  watching  spirit  burned, 

Conquering  its  little  island  from  the  Dark, 

Sole  as  a  scholar's  lamp,  and  heard  men's  steps, 

In  the  far  hurry  of  the  outward  world, 

Pass  dimly  forth  and  back/ sounds  heard  in  dream. 

As  Ganymede  by  the  eagle  was  snatched  up 

From  the  gross  sod  to  be  Jove's  cup-bearer, 

So  was  I  lifted  by  my  great  design  : 

And  who  hath  trod  Olympus,  from  his  eye 

Fades  not  that  broader  outlook  of  the  gods ; 

His  life's  low  valleys  overbrow  earth's  clouds, 

And  that  Olympian  spectre  of  the  past 

Looms  towering  up  in  sovereign  memory, 

Beckoning  his  soul  from  meaner  heights  of  doom. 

Had  but  the  shadow  of  the  Thunderer's  bird, 

Flashing  athwart  my  spirit,  made  of  me 

A  swift-betraying  vision's  Ganymede, 

Yet  to  have  greatly  dreamed  precludes  low  ends; 

Great  days  have  ever  such  a  morning-red, 

On  such  a  base  great  futures  are  built  up, 

And  aspiration,  though  not  put  in  act. 

Comes  back  to  ask  its  plighted  troth  again, 

Still  watches  round  its  grave  the  unlaid  ghost 

Of  a  dead  virtue,  and  makes  other  hopes, 

Save  that  implacable  one,  seem  thin  and  bleak 

As  shadows  of  bare  trees  upon  the  snow, 

Bound  freezing  there  by  the  unpitymg  moon. 

While  other  youths  perplexed  their  mandolins, 
Praying  that  Thetis  would  her  hngers  twine 
In  the  loose  glories  ot  her  lover's  hair. 


Columbus, 

And  wile  another  kiss  to  keep  back  day, 

1,  stretched  beneath  the  many-centuried  shade 

Of  some  writhed  oak,  the  wood's  Laocoon, 

Did  of  my  hope  a  dryad  mistress  make. 

Whom  I  would  woo  to  meet  me  privily, 

Or   underneath    the    stars,    or  when 

the  moon 

Flecked  all  the  forest  floor  with  scat 
tered  pearls. 

O    days    whose     memory    tames    to 
fawning  down 


269 


"  \VHII.K    OTHER     YOl'THH   PER 
PLEXED   THEIR   MANDOLIN'S." 


The  surly  fell   of  Ocean's 
bristled  neck ! 

1  know  not  when  this  hope 
enthralled  me  first, 

I!ut  from  my  boyhood  up 

I  loved  to  hear 

The  tall  pine-forests  of  the  Apennine 
Murmur  their  hoary  legends  of  the  sea. 
Which  hearing,  I  in  vision  clear  beheld 
The  sudden  dark  of  tropic  night  shut  down 
O'er  the  huge  whisper  of  great  watery  wastes, 
The  while  a  pair  of  herons  trailingly 
Flapped  inland,  where  some  league-wide  river  hurled 
The  yellow  spoil  of  unconjectured  realms 
Far  through  a  gulf's  green  silence,  never  scarred 


270 


Columbus. 


By  any  but  the  North-wind's  hurrying  keels. 
And  not  the  pines  alone ;  all  sights  and  sounds 
To  my  world-seeking  heart  paid  fealty, 
And  catered  for  it  as  the  Cretan  bees 
Brought  honey  to  the  baby  Jupiter, 
Who  in  his  soft  hand  crushed  a  violet, 


"THK  WHILE  A  PAIR  OF  HKKONS 
TKAIJ.INGLY  FLAPl'KI). 


Godlike  foremusing  the 

rough      thunder's 

gripe ; 
-Then   did  I    entertain 

the  poet's  song, 
My  great  Idea's  guest, 

and,  passing  o'er 
That    iron    bridge  the 

Tuscan  built  to  hell, 
I  heard  Ulysses  tell  of 

mountain-chains 


Whose  adamantine  links,  his  manacles. 

The  western  main  shook  growling,  and  still  gnawed. 

I  brooded  on  the  wise  Athenian's  tale 

Of  happy  Atlantis,  and  heard  Bjorne's  keel 

Crunch  the  gray  pebbles  of  the  Vinland  shore: 

For  I  believe  the  poets ;  it  is  they 

Who  utter  wisdom  from  the  central  deep. 

And,  listening  to  the  inner  fknv  of  things, 

Speak  to  the  age  out  of  eternity. 

Ah  me !  old  hermits  sought  for  solitude 
In  caves  and  desert  places  of  the  earth, 
Where  their  own  heart-beat  was  the  only  stir 
Of  living  thing  that  comforted  the  year; 
But  the  bald  pillar-top  of  Simeon, 
In  midnight's  blankest  waste,  were  populous, 
Matched  with  the  isolation  drear  and  deep 
Of  him  who  pines  among  the  swarm  of  men, 
At  once  a  new  thought's  king  and  prisoner. 
Feeling  the  truer  life  within  his  life, 
The  fountain  of  his  spirit's  prophecy, 
Sinking  away  and  wasting,  drop  by  drop, 
In  the  ungrateful  sands  of  sceptic  ears. 
He  in  the  palace-aisles  of  untrod  woods 
Doth  walk  a  king;  for  him  the  pent-up  cell 
Widens  beyond  the  circles  of  the  stars, 
And  all  the  sceptred  spirits  of  the  past 
Come  thronging  in  to  greet  him  as  their  peer; 


Columbus.  271 

While,  like  an  heir  new-crowned,  his  heart  o'erleaps 
The  blazing  steps  of  his  ancestral  throne ; 
But  in  the  market-place's  glare  and  throng- 
He  sits  apart,  an  exile,  and  his  brow 
Aches  with  the  mocking  memory  of  its  crown. 
But  to  the  spirit  select  there  is  no  choice; 
He  cannot  say,  This  will  I  do,  or  that, 
For  the  cheap  means  putting  Heaven's  ends  in  pawn, 
And  bartering  his  bleak  rocks,  the  freehold  stern 
Of  destiny's  first-born,  for  smoother  fields 
That  yield  no  crop  of  self-denying  will ; 
A  hand  is  stretched  to  him  from  out  the  dark, 
Which  grasping  without  question,  he  is  led 
Where  there  is  work  that  he  must  do  for  God. 
The  trial  still  is  the  strength's  complement. 
And  the  uncertain,  dizzy  path  that  scales 
The  sheer  heights  of  supremest  purposes 
Is  steeper  to  the  angel  than  the  child. 
Chances  have  laws  as  fixed  as  planets  have, 
And  disappointment's  dry  and  bitter  root, 
Envy's  harsh  berries,  and  the  choking  pool 
Of  the  world's  scorn,  are  the  right  mother-milk 
To  the  tough  hearts  that  pioneer  their  kind, 
And  break  a  pathway  to  those  unknown  realms 
That  in  the  earth's  broad  shadow  lie  enthralled , 
Endurance  is  the  crowning  quality. 
And  patience  all  the  passion  of  great  hearts ; 
These  are  their  stay,  and  when  the  leaden  world 
Sets  its  hard  face  against  their  fateful  thought, 
And  brute  strength,  like  a  scornful  conqueror, 
Clangs  his  huge  mace  down  in  the  other  scale, 
The  inspired  soul  but  flings  his  patience  in, 
And  slowly  that  outweighs  the  ponderous  globe, — 
One  faith  against  a  whole  earth's  unbelief, 
One  soul  against  the  flesh  of  all  mankind. 
Thus  ever  seems  it  when  my  soul  can  hear 
The  voice  that  errs  not ;   then  my  triumph  gleams, 
( )'er  the  blank  ocean  beckoning,  and  all  night 
My  heart  flies  on  before  me  as  I  sail ; 
Far  on  I  see  my  lifelong  enterprise, 
Which  rose  like  Ganges 'mid  the  freezing  snows 
Of  a  world's  sordidness,  sweep  broadening  clown. 
And,  gathering  to  itself  a  thousand  streams 
Grow  sacred  ere  it  mingle  with  the  sea; 
I  see  the  ungated  wall  of  chaos  old, 


272  Ibuncicr  an<>  Colfr. 

With  blocks  Cyclopean  hewn  of  solid  night, 
Fade  like  a  wreath  of  unreturning  mist 
Before  the  irreversible  feet  of  light; — 
And  lo,  with  what  clear  omen  in  the  east 
One  day's  gray  threshold  stands  the  eager  dawn, 
Like  young  Leander  rosy  from  the  sea 
Glowing  at  Hero's  lattice  ! 

One  day  more 

These  muttering  shoalbrains  leave  the  helm  to  me : 
God,  let  me  not  in  their  dull  ooze  be  stranded  ; 
Let  not  this  one  frail  bark,  to  hollow  which 
i  have  dug  out  the  pith  and  sinewy  heart 
Of  my  aspiring  life's  fair  trunk,  be  so 
Cast  up  to  warp  and  blacken  in  the  sun, 
Just  as  the  opposing  wind  'gins  whistle  off 
His  cheek-swollen  mates,  and  from  the  leaning  mast 
Fortune's  full  sail  strains  forward ! 

One  poor  day  ! — 

Remember  whose  and  not  how  short  it  is  ! 
It  is  God's  day,  it  is  Columbus's. 
A  lavish  day!     One  day,  with  life  and  heart, 
Is  more  than  time  enough  to  find  a  world. 


HUNGER   AND  COLD. 

SISTERS  two,  all  praise  to  you. 
With  your  faces  pinched  and  blue; 
To  the  poor  man  you've  been  true 

From  of  old : 

You  can  speak  the  keenest  word, 
You  are  sure  of  being  heard. 
From  the  point  you've  never  stirred, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

Let  sleek  statesmen  temporize  ; 
Palsied  are  their  shifts  and  lies 
When  they  meet  your  bloodshot  eyes. 

Grim  and  bold ; 
Policy  you  set  at  naught, 
In  their  traps  you'll  not  be  caught, 
You're  too  honest  to  be  bought, 

Hunger  and  Cold . 


•(hunger  anO  ColD.  273 

Bolt  and  bar  the  palace  door ; 
While  the  mass  of  men  are  poor, 
Naked  truth  grows  more  and  more 

Uncontrolled ; 

You  had  never  yet,  1  guess, 
Any  praise  for  bash  fulness. 
You  can  visit  sans  court-dress, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 

While  the  music  fell  and  rose, 
And  the  dance  reeled  to  its  close. 
Where  her  round  of  costly  woes 

Fashion  strolled, 
I  beheld  with  shuddering  fear 
Wolves'  eyes  through  the  windows  peer; 
Little  dream  they  you  are  near, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

When  the  toiler's  heart  you  clutch, 
Conscience  is  not  valued  much, 
He  recks  not  a  bloody  smutch 

On  his  gold  : 

Everything  to  you  defers, 
You  are  potent  reasoners, 
At  your  whisper  Treason  stirs, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

Rude  comparisons  you  draw, 
Words  refuse  to  sate  your  maw, 
Your  gaunt  limbs  the  cobweb  law 

Cannot  hold : 

You're  not  clogged  with  foolish  pride, 
But  can  seize  a  right  denied  : 
Somehow  God  is  on  your  side, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

You  respect  no  hoary  wrong 
More  for  having  triumphed  long; 
Its  past  victims,  haggard  throng, 

From  the  mould 

You  unbury:   swords  and  spears 
Weaker  are  than  poor  men's  tears, 
Weaker  than  your  silent  years, 

Hunger  and  Cold ! 


274  Cbc 


Let  them  guard  both  hall  and  bovver  ; 
Through  the  window  you  will  glower, 
Patient  till  your  reckoning  hour 

Shall  be  tolled  ; 

Cheeks  are  pale,  but  hands  are  red, 
Guiltless  blood  may  chance  be  shed, 
But  ye  must  and  will  be  fed, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

God  has  plans  man  must  not  spoil, 
Some  were  made  to  starve  and  toil, 
Some  to  share  the  wine  and  oil, 

We  are  told  : 
Devil's  theories  are  these, 
Stirling  hope  and  love  and  peace, 
Framed  your  hideous  lusts  to  please, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 

Scatter  ashes  on  thy  head, 
Tears  of  burning  sorrow  shed, 
Earth  !  and  be  by  pity  led 

To  Love's  fold  ; 
Ere  they  block  the  very  door, 
With  lean  corpses  of  the  poor, 
And  will  hush  for  naught  but  gore, 

Hunger  and  Cold  ! 
1844. 


THE  LANDLORD. 

WHAT  boot  your  houses  and  your  lands  ? 

In  spite  of  close-drawn  deed  and  fence, 
Like  water,  'twixt  your  cheated  hands, 
They  slip  into  the  graveyard's  sands, 

And  mock  your  ownership's  pretence. 

How  shall  you  speak  to  urge  your  right, 

Choked  with  that  soil  for  which  you  lust  ? 
The  bit  of  clay,  for  whose  delight 
You  grasp,  is  mortgaged,  too ;  Death  might 
Foreclose  this  very  day  in  dust. 

Fence  as  you  please,  this  plain  poor  man, 

Whose  only  fields  are  in  his  wit, 
Who  shapes  the  world,  as  best  he  can, 


Co  a  ipine=drcc.  275 

According  to  God's  higher  plan, 
Owns  you,  and  fences  as  is  fit. 

Though  yours  the  rents,  his  incomes  wax- 
By  right  of  eminent  domain  ; 

From  factory  tall  to  woodman's  axe, 

All  things  on  earth  must  pay  their  tax, 
To  feed  his  hungry  heart  and  brain. 

He  takes  you  from  your  easy-chair, 

And  what  he  plans  that  you  must  do; 
You  sleep  in  down,  eat  dainty  fare, — 
He  mounts  his  crazy  garret-stair 

And  starves,  the  land'ord  over  you. 

Feeding  the  clods  your  idlesse  drains, 

You  make  more  green  six  feet  of  soil , 
His  fruitful  word,  like  suns  and  rains, 
Partakes  the  seasons'  bounteous  pains. 

And  toils  to  lighten  human  toil. 

Your  lands,  with  force  or  cunning  got. 

Shrink  to  the  measure  of  the  grave ; 
But  Death  himself  abridges  not 
The  tenures  of  almighty  thought, 

The  titles  of  the  wise  and  brave. 


TO  A   PINE-TREK. 

FAR  up  on  Katahdin  thou  towerest, 
Purple-blue  with  the  distance  and  vast ; 

Like  a  cloud  o'er  the  lowlands  thou  lowerest, 
That  hangs  poised  on  a  lull  in  the  blast, 
To  its  fall  leaning  awful. 

In  the  storm,  like  a  prophet  o'ermaddened, 
Thou  singest  and  tossest  thy  branches ; 

Thy  heart  with  the  terror  is  gladdened, 
Thou  forebodest  the  dread  avalanches. 
When  whole  mountains  swoop  valeward. 

In  the  calm  thou  o'erstretchest  the  valleys 
With  thine  arms,  as  if  blessings  imploring, 

Like  an  old  king  led  forth  from  his  palace. 
When  his  people  to  battle  are  pouring 
From  the  citv  beneath  him. 


276 


Co  a  flMne=Cree. 


"FOR  THE     UALK     SXAI'lUKS     MIKE 
HIS    I.YKK.'' 


To  the  lumberer  asleep  'neath  thy  blooming; 

Thou  dost  sing  of  wild  billows  in  motion. 
Till  he  longs  to  be  swung  mid  their  booming 

In  the  tents  of  the  Arabs  of  ocean, 
Whose  finned  isles  are  their  cattle. 

For  the  gale  snatches  thee  for  his  lyre, 
With  mad  hand  crashing  melody  frantic. 

While  he  pours  forth  his  mighty  desire 
To  leap  down  on  the  eager  Atlantic, 
Whose  arms  stretch  to  his  playmate. 


The  wild  storm    makes  his   lair  in  thy 

branches. 
And  thence  preys  on    the   continent 

under ; 
Like    a    lion,    crouched   close    on    his 

haunches, 
There  awaiteth  his  leap   the    fierce 

thunder, 
(irowling  low  with  impatience. 

Spite  ot  wintei,  thou  keep'st  thy  green 

glory, 

Lusty  father  of  Titans  past  number; 
The    snow-flakes    alone     make    thee 

hoary. 
Nestling   close    to    thy  branches   in 

slumber. 
And  thee  mantling  with  silence. 

Thou   alone   know'st   the    splendor   of 

winter, 

Mid  thy  snow-silvered,  hushed   pre 
cipices, 
Hearing  crags  of  green  ice  groan  and 

splinter. 

And  then  plunge  down  the   muffled 
E  abysses 

In  the  quiet  of  midnight. 


Thou  alone  know'st  the  glory  of  summer, 
("•a/ing  down  on  thy  broad  seas  of  forest, 

On  thy  subjects  that  send  a  proud  murmur 
Up  to  thee,  to  their  sachem,  who  towerest 
From  thy  bleak  throne  to  heaven. 


Si  Descen&ero  in  Ifnfenuun,  Sfres.  277 

SI    DKSCKXDKRO   IX   IXFERXUM,    ADES. 

(),  WAXDERiNCi  dim  on  the  extremest  edge 
Of  (jod's  bright  providence,  whose  spirits  sigh 

Drearily  in  you,  like  the  winter  sedge 

That  shivers  o'er  the  dead  pool  stiff  and  dry, 
A  thin,  sad  voice,  when  the  bold  wind  roars  by 
From  the  clear  North  of  Duty, — 

Still  by  cracked  arch  and  broken  shaft  I  trace 

That  here  was  once  .a  shrine  and  holy  place 

( )f  the  supernal  Beauty, 

A  child's  play-altar  reared  of  stones  and  moss, 
With  wilted  (lowers  for  offering  laid  across, 

Mute  recognition  of  the  all-ruling  Grace. 

\\o\\  far  are  ye  from  the  innocent,  from  those 

Whose  hearts  are  as  a  little  lane  serene, 
Smooth-heaped  from  wall  to  wall  with  unbroke  snows, 

Or  in  the  summer  blithe  with  lamb-cropped  green, 

Save  the  one  track,  where  naught  more  rude  is  seen 

Than  the  plump  wain  at  even 

Bringing  home  four  months'  sunshine  bound  in  sheaves! 
How  far  are  ye  from  those!  yet  who  believes 
That  ye  can  shut  out  heaven? 

Your  souls  partake  its  influence,  not  in  vain 

X'or  all  unconscious,  as  that  silent  lane 
Its  drift  of  noiseless  apple-blooms  receives. 

Looking  within  myself,   I  note  ho\v  thin 

A  plank  of  station,  chance,  or  prosperous  fate, 

Doth  fence  me  from  the  clutching  waves  of  sin; 
In  my  own  heart  I  find  the  worst  man's  mate, 
And  see  not  dimly  the  smooth-hinged  gate 
That  opes  to  those  abysses 

Where  ye  grope  darkly, — ye  who  never  knew 

On  your  young  hearts  love's  consecrating  dew. 

Or  felt  a  mother's  kisses, 

Or  home's  restraining  tendrils  round  you  curled  : 
Ah,  side  by  side  with  heart's-ease  in  this  world 

The  fatal  nightshade  grows  and  bitter  rue! 

One  band  ye  cannot  break, — the  force  that  clips 
And  grasps  your  circles  to  the  central  light ; 

Yours  is  the  prodigal  comet's  long  ellipse, 
Self-exiled  to  the  farthest  verge  of  night; 
Yet  strives  with  you  no  less  that  inward  might 


27-s  Co  tbc  ipast. 

No  sin  hath  e'er  imbruted  ; 
The  god  in  you  the  creed-dimmed  eye  eludes ; 
The  Law  brooks  not  to  have  its  solitudes 

By  bigot  feet  polluted  , 

Yet  they  who  watch  your  God-compelled  return 
May  see  your  happy  perihelion  burn 
Where  the  calm  sun  his  unfledged  planets  broods. 


TO  THE   PAST. 

WONDROUS  and  awful  are  thy  silent  halls, 

O  kingdom  of  the  past ! 
There  lie  the  bygone  ages  in  their  palls, 

Guarded  by  shadows  vast ; 
There  all  is  hushed  and  breathless, 
Save  when  some  image  of  old  error  falls 
Earth  worshipped  once  as  deathless. 

There  sits  drear  Egypt,  mid  beleaguered  sands, 

Half  woman  and  half  beast, 
The  burnt-out  torch  within  her  mouldering  hand? 

That  once  lit  all  the  East , 
A  dotard  bleared  and  hoary, 
There  Asser  crouches  o'er  the  blackened  brands 
Of  Asia's  long-quenched  glory. 

Still  as  a  city  buried  'neath  the  sea 
Thy  courts  and  temples  stand  , 
Idle  as  forms  on  wind-waved  tapestry 

Of  saints  and  heroes  grand, 
Thy  phantasms  grope  and  shiver, 
Or  watch  the  loose  shores  crumbling  silently 
Into  Time's  gnawing  river. 


Co  tbc  {past.  279 

Titanic  shapes  with  faces  blank  and  dun, 

Of  their  old  godhead  lorn, 
Gaze  on  the  embers  of  the  sunken  sun, 

Which  they  misdeem  for  morn  ; 
And  yet  the  eternal  sorrow 
In  their  unmonarched  eyes  says  day  is  done 
Without  the  hope  of  morrow. 

O  realm  of  silence  and  of  swart  eclipse, 

The  shapes  that  haunt  thy  gloom 
Make  signs  to  us  and  move  their  withered  lips 

Across  the  gulf  of  doom ; 
Yet  all  their  sound  and  motion 
Bring  no  more  fright  to  us  than  wraiths  of  ships 
On  the  mirage's  ocean. 

And  if  sometimes  a  moaning  wandereth 

From  out  thy  desolate  halls, 
If  some  grim  shadow  of  thy  living  death 

Across  our  sunshine  falls 
And  scares  the  world  to  error, 
The  eternal  life  sends  forth  melodious  breath 
To  chase  the  misty  terror. 

Thy  mighty  clamors,  wars,  and  world-noised  deeds 

Are  silent  now  in  dust, 
Gone  like  a  tremble  of  the  huddling  reeds 

Beneath  some  sudden  gust ; 
Thy  forms  and  creeds  have  vanished, 
Tossed  out  to  wither  like  unsightly  weeds 
From  the  world's  garden  banished. 

Whatever  of  true  life  there  was  in  thee 

Leaps  in  our  age's  veins; 
Wield  still  thy  bent  and  wrinkled  empery, 

And  shake  thine  idie  chains; — 
To  thee  thy  dross  is  clinging, 
For  us  thy  martyrs  die,  thy  prophets  see, 
Thy  poets  still  are  singing. 

Here,  mid  the  bleak  waves  of  our  strife  and  care, 

Float  the  green  Fortunate  Isles 
Where  all  thy  hero-spirits  dwell,  and  share 

Our  martyrdoms  and  toils  ; 
The  present  moves  attended 
With  all  of  brave  and  excellent  and  fail- 
That  made  the  old  time  splendid. 


280  1bcbc. 

HEBE. 

I  SAW  the  twinkle  of  white  feet, 
I  saw  the  Hash  of  robes  descending; 

Before  her  ran  an  influence  fleet, 
That  bowed  my  heart  like  barly  bending. 


I  IK    HKIMMF.D   BOWI.   IX    1IKK   GKAST 


As,  in  bare  fields,  the  searching  bees 
Pilot  to  blooms  beyond  our  finding, 


Cbe  Search.  281 

It  led  me  on,  by  sweet  degrees 
Joy's  simple  honey-cells  unbinding. 

Those  Graces  were  that  seemed  grim  Fates  ; 
With  nearer  love  the  sky  leaned  o'er  me; 

The  long-sought  Secret's  golden  gates 
On  musical  hinges  swung  before  me. 

I  saw  the  brimmed  bowl  in  her  grasp 
Thrilling  with  godhood ;  like  a  lover 

I  sprang  the  proffered  life  to  clasp; — 
The  beaker  fell ;  the  luck  was  over. 

The  Earth  has  drunk  the  vintage  up ; 
What  boots  it  patch  the  goblet's  splinters? 

Can  Summer  fill  the  icy  cup, 
Whose  treacherous  crystal  is  but  Winter's  ? 

O  spendthrift  haste  !  await  the  Gods  ; 
Their  nectar  crowns  the  lips  of  Patience; 

Haste  scatters  on  unthankful  sods 
The  immortal  gift  in  vain  libations. 

Coy  Hebe  flies  from  those  that  woo, 
And  shuns  the  hands  would  seize  upon  her ; 

Follow  th>  life,  and  she  will  sue 
To  pour  for  thee  the  cup  of  honor. 


THE   SEARCH. 

I   WENT  to  seek  for  Christ, 
And  Nature  seemed  so  fair 

That  first  the  woods  and  fields  my  youth  enticed, 
And  I  was  sure  to  find  him  there  : 
The  temple  I  forsook, 
And  to  the  solitude 
Allegiance  paid  ;  but  Winter  came  and  shook 

The  crown  and  purple  from  my  wood ; 
His  snows,  like  desert  sands,  with  scornful  drift, 
Besieged  the  columned  aisle  and  palace-gate  ; 
My  Thebes,  cut  deep  with  many  a  solemn  rift, 

But  epitaphed  her  own  sepulchred  state : 
Then  I  remembered  whom  I  went  to  seek. 
And  blessed  blunt  Winter  for  his  council  bleak. 


282  Cbc  Search. 

Hack  to  the  world  I  turned, 
For  Christ,  I  said,  is  King; 
So  the  cramped  alley  and  the  hut  I  spurned, 
As  far  beneath  his  sojourning: 
Mid  power  and  wealth  I  sought, 
But  found  no  trace  of  him, 
And  all  the  costly  offerings  I  had  brought 

With  sudden  rust  and  mould  grew  dim  : 
1  found  his  tomb,  indeed,  where,  by  their  laws, 
All  must  on  stated  days  themselves  imprison, 
Mocking  with  bread  a  dead  creed's  grinning  jaws, 

Witless  how  long  the  life  had  thence  arisen ; 
Due  sacrifice  to  this  they  set  apart. 
Prizing  it  more  than  Christ's  own  living  heart. 

So  from  my  feet  the  dust 
Of  the  proud  World  I  shook ; 

Then  came  dear  Love  and  shared  with  me  his  crust, 
And  half  my  sorrow's  burden  took. 
After  the  World's  soft  bed, 
Its  rich  and  dainty  fare, 
Like  down  seemed  Love's  coarse  pillow  to  my  head, 

His  cheap  food  seemed  as  manna  rare ; 
Fresh-trodden  prints  of  bare  and  bleeding  feet. 
Turned  to  the  heedless  city  whence  I  came, 
Hard  by  I  saw,  and  springs  of  worship  sweet 

Gushed  from  my  cleft  heart  smitten  by  the  same ; 
Love  looked  me  in  the  face  and  spake  no  words, 
But  straight  I  knew  those  footprints  were  the  Lord's. 

J  followed  where  they  led, 
And  in  a  hovel  rude, 

With  naught  to  fence  the  weather  from  his  head, 
The  King  I  sought  for  meekly  stood  ; 
A  naked,  hungry  child 
Clung  round  his  gracious  knee, 
And  a  poor  hunted  slave  looked  up  and  smiled 

To  bless  the  smile  that  set  him  free ; 
New  miracles  I  saw  his  presence  do,— 

No  more  I  knew  the  hovel  bare  and  poor, 
The  gathered  chips  into  a  woodpile  grew, 

The  broken  morsel  swelled  to  goodly  store  ; 
I  knelt  and  wept :  my  Christ  no  more  I  seek. 
His  throne  is  with  the  outcast  and  the  weak. 


Cbe  present  Crisis.  283 

THE  PRESENT  CRISIS. 

WHEN  a  deed  is  done  for  Freedom,  through  the  broad  earth's 

aching  breast 

Runs  a  thrill  of  joy  prophetic,  trembling  on  from  east  to  west, 
And  the  slave,  where'er  he  co\vers,  feels  the  soul  within  him 

climb 

To  the  awful  verge  of  manhood,  as  the  energy  sublime 
Of  a  century  bursts  full-blossomed  on  the  thorny  stem  of  Time. 

Through  the  walls  of  hut  and  palace  shoots  the  instantaneous 

throe, 

When  the  travail  of  the  Ages  wrings  earth's  systems  to  and  fro ; 
At  the  birth  of  each  new  Era,  with  a  recognizing  start, 
Nation  wildly  looks  at  nation,  standing  with  mute  lips  apart, 
And  glad   Truth's  yet    mightier  man-child    leaps  beneath  the 

Future's  heart. 

So  the  Evil's  triumph  sendcth,  with  a  terror  and  a  chill, 

I'nder  continent  to  continent,  the  sense  of  coming  ill, 

And  the  slave,  where'er  he  rowers,  feels  his  sympathies  with 

God 

In  hot  tear-drops  ebbing  earthward,  to  be  drunk  up  by  the  sod. 
Till  a  corpse  crawls  round  unburied,  delving  in  the  nobler  clod. 

For  mankind  are  one  in  spirit,  and  an  instinct  bears  along, 
Round  the   earth's  electric   circle,    the   swift   flash   of   right  or 

wrong ; 

Whether  conscious  or  unconscious,  yet  Humanity's  vast  frame 
Through    its    ocean-sundered   fibres    feels    the  gush  of   joy   or 

shame ; — 
In  the  gain  or  loss  of  one  race  all  the  rest  have  equal  claim. 

Once  to  every  man  and  nation  comes  the  moment  to  decide, 

In  the  strife  of  Truth  with  Falsehood,  for  the  good  or  evil  side; 

Some  great  cause,  God's  new  Messiah,  offering  each  the  bloom 
or  blight, 

Parts  the  goats  upon  the  left  hand,  and  the  s-heep  upon  tin- 
right, 

And  the  choice  goes  by  forever  'twixt  that  darkness  and  that 
light. 

Hast  thou  chosen,    O  my  people,   on  whose  party    thou    shalt 

stand, 
Ere  the   Doom   from  its   worn   sandals  shakes  the  dust  against 

our  land  ? 


284  Cbc  present  Crisis. 

Though  the  cause  of  Evil  prosper,  yet  'tis  Truth  alone  is  strong, 
And,  albeit  she  wander  outcast  now,  1  see  around  her  throng 
Troops  of  beautiful,  tall  angels,  to  enshield  her  from  all  wrong. 

Backward  look  across  the  ages  and  the  beacon-moments  see, 
That,  like  peaks  of  some  sunk  continent,  jut  through  Oblivion's 

sea; 

Not  an  ear  in  court  or  market  for  the  low  foreboding  cry 
Of  those  Crises,  God's  stern  winnowers,  from  whose  feet  earth's 

chaff  must  fly ; 
Never   shows  the    choice    momentous   till    the    judgment    hath 

passed  by. 

Careless  seems  the  great  Avenger;   history's  pages  but  record 
One  death-grapple  in  the  darkness  'twixt  old  systems  and  the 

Word ; 

Truth  forever  on  the  scaffold.  Wrong  forever  on  the  throne, — 
Yet   that  scaffold    sways  the  future,   and,   behind  the  dim  un 
known, 
Standeth  God  within  the  shadow,  keeping  watch  above  his  own. 

We  see  dimly  in  the  Present  what  is  small  and  what  is  great, 
Slow  of  faith  how  weak  an  arm  may  turn  the  iron  helm  of  fate, 
But  the  soul  is  still  oracular;  amid  the  market's  din, 
List  the  ominous  stern  whisper  from  the  Delphic  cave  within, — 
"  They  enslave  their  children's  children  who  make  compromise 
with  sin. " 

Slavery,  the  earth-born  Cyclops,  fellest  of  the  giant  brood, 
Sons  of  brutish  Force  and   Darkness,    who  have  drenched  the 

earth  with  blood, 

Famished  in  his  self-made  desert,  blinded  by  our  purer  day, 
Gropes  in  yet  unblasted  regions  for  his  miserable  prey; — 
Shall  we  guide  his  gory  fingers  where  our  helpless  children  play  ? 

Then  to  side  with  Truth  is  noble  when  we  share  her  wretched 

crust, 
Ere  her  cause  bring  fame  and  profit,  and  'tis  prosperous  to  be 

just ; 
Then    it  is  the  brave  man    chooses,   while  the  coward    stands 

aside, 

Doubting  in  his  abject  spirit,  till  his  Lord  is  crucified, 
And  the  multitude  make  virtue  of  the  faith  they  had  denied. 

Count    me  o'er  earth's  chosen    heroes, — they    were  souls    that 
stood  alone, 


Cbe  present  Crisis.  285 

While  the  men  they  agonized  for  hurled  the  contumelious  stone, 
Stood  serene,  and  down  the  future  saw  the  golden  beam  incline 
To  the  side  of  perfect  justice,  mastered  by  their  faith  divine, 
By  one  man's  plain  truth  to  manhood  and  to  God's  supreme 
design. 

By  the  light  of  burning  heretics  Christ's  bleeding  feet  I  track 
Toiling   up    new  Calvaries  ever  with  the  cross  that  turns  not 

back, 
And  these  mounts   of  anguish    number    how  each  generation 

learned 
One  new  word  of  that  grand  Credo  which  in  prophet-hearts  hath 

burned 
Since  the  first  man  stood  (iod-conquered  with  his  face  to  heaven 

upturned. 

For  Humanity  sweeps  onward  :  where  to-day  the  martyr  stands, 
On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas  with  the  silver  in  his  hands; 
Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready  and  the  crackling  fagots  burn, 
While  the  hooting  mob  of  yesterday  in  silent  awe  return 
To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes  into  History's  golden  urn. 

"I"  is  as  easy  to  be  heroes  as  to  sit  the  idle  slaves 
Of  a  legendary  virtue  carved  upon  our  fathers'  graves, 
Worshippers  of  light  ancestral  make  the  present  light  a  crime  ; — 
Was  the  Mayflower  launched  by   cowards,  steered  by  men  be 
hind  their  time  ? 

Turn  those  tracks  toward  Past  or  Future,  that  make  Plymouth 
Rock  sublime  ? 

They  were  men  of  present  valor,  stalwart  old  iconoclasts, 
Unconvinced  by  axe  or  gibbet  that  all  virtue  was  the  Past's ; 
But  we  make  their  truth  our  falsehood,  thinking  that  hath  made 

us  free, 

Hoarding  it  in  mouldy  parchments,  while  our  tender  spirits  flee 
The  rude  grasp  of  that  great  Impulse  which  drove  them  across 

the  sea. 

They  have  rights  who  dare  maintain  them  ;  we  are  traitors  to  our 

sires, 

Smothering  in  their  holy  ashes  Freedom's  new-lit  altar-fires; 
Shall  we  make  their  creed  our  jailer  ?     Shall  we  in  our  haste  to 

slay, 
From  the  tombs  of  the  old  prophets  steal   the   funeral  lamps 

away 
To  light  up  the  martyr-fagots  round  the  prophets  of  to-day? 


286  an  fndian*>Summer  iRcverie. 

New  occasions  teach  new  duties;  Time  makes  ancient  good  un 
couth  ; 

They  must  upward  still,  and  onward,  who  would  keep  abreast 
of  Truth ; 

Lo,  before  us  gleam  her  camp-fires!  we  ourselves  must  Pilgrims 
be, 

Launch  our  Mayflower,  and  steer  boldly  through  the  desperate 
winter  sea, 

Nor  attempt  the  Future's  portal  with  the  Past's  blood-rusted 
key. 

December,   1844. 


AN    INDIAN-SUMMER    REVERIK. 

WHAT  visionary  tints  the  year  puts  on, 
When  falling  leaves  falter  through  motionless  air 

Or  numbly  cling  and  shiver  to  be  gone  ! 
How  shimmer  the  low  flats  and  pastures  bare, 

As  with  her  nectar  Hebe  Autumn  rills 

The  bowl  between  me  and  those  distant  hills. 
And  smiles  and  shakes  abroad  her  misty,  tremulous  hair! 

No  more  the  landscape  holds  its  wealth  apart, 
Making  me  poorer  in  my  poverty. 

But  mingles  with  my  senses  and  my  heart ; 
My  own  projected  spirit  seems  to  me 

In  her  own  reverie  the  world  to  steep ; 

'T  is  she  that  waves  to  sympathetic  sleep, 
Moving,  as  she  is  moved,  each  field  and  hill  and  tree. 

How  fuse  and  mix,  with  what  unfelt  degrees, 
Clasped  by  the  faint  horizon's  languid  arms, 

Each  into  each,  the  hazy  distances! 
The  softened  season  all  the  landscape  charms ; 

Those  hills,  my  native  village  that  embay. 

In  waves  of  dreamier  purple  roll  away. 
And  floating  in  mirage  seem  all  the  glimmering  farms. 

Far  distant  sounds  the  hidden  chickadee 
Close  at  my  side;  far  distant  sound  the  leaves; 

The  fields  seem  fields  of  dream,  where  Memory 
Wanders  like  gleaming  Ruth ;  and  as  the  sheaves 

Of  wheat  and  barley  wavered  in  the  eye 

Of  Boaz  as  the  maiden's  glow  went  by, 
So  tremble  and  seem  remote  all  things  the  sense  receives. 


Bn  1n&tan*Summer  iRcvciic.  287 

The  cock's  shrill  trump  that  tells  of  scattered  corn, 
Passed  breezily  on  by  all  his  flapping  mates, 

Faint  and  more  faint,  from  barn  to  barn  is  borne, 
Southward,  perhaps  to  far  Magellan's  Straits; 
Dimly  I  catch  the  throb  of  distant  flails ; 
Silently  overhead  the  hen-hawk  sails, 
With  watchful,  measuring  eye,  and  for  his  quarry  waits. 

The  sobered  robin,  hunger-silent  now, 
Seeks  cedar-berries  blue,  his  autumn  cheer ; 

The  squirrel,  on  the  shingly  shag-bark's  bough, 
Now  saws,  now  lists  with  downward  eye  and  ear, 
Then  drops  his  nut,  and  with  a  chipping  bound 
Whisks  to  his  winding  fastness  underground; 
The  clouds  like  swans  drift  down  the  streaming  atmosphere. 

O'er  yon  bare  knoll  the  pointed  cedar  shadows 
Drowse  on  the  crisp,  gray  moss;  the  ploughman's  call 
Creeps  faint  as  smoke  from  black,  fresh-furrowed 

meadows ; 

The  single  crow  a  single  caw  lets  fall; 
And  all  around  me  every  bush  and  tree 

Says  Autumn's  here,  and  Winter  soon  will  be. 
Who  snows  his  soft,  white  sleep  and  silence  over  all. 

The  birch,  most  shy  and  ladylike  of  trees, 
Her  poverty,  as  best  she  may,  retrieves, 

And  hints  at  her  foregone  gentilities 
With  some  saved  relics  of  her  wealth  of  leaves; 
The  swamp-oak,  with  his  royal  purple  on, 
Glares  red  as  blood  across  the  sinking  sun, 
As  one  who  proudlier  to  a  falling  fortune  cleaves. 

He  looks  a  sachem,  in  red  blanket  wrapt, 
Who,  mid  some  council  of  the  sad-garbed  whites. 

Erect  and  stern,  in  his  own  memories  lapt, 
With  distant  eye  broods  over  other  sights, 

Sees  the  hushed  wood  the  city's  flare  replace. 

The  wounded  turf  heal  o'er  the  railway's  trace, 
And  roams  the  savage  Past  of  his  undwindled  rights. 

The  red-oak,  softer-grained,  yields  all  for  lost, 
And,  with  his  crumpled  foliage  stiff  and  dry, 

After  the  first  betrayal  of  the  frost. 
Rebuffs  the  kiss  of  the  relenting  sky ; 


288 


Bn  fn&fan*Summet  IReveric. 


The  chestnuts,  lavish  of  their  long-hid  gold, 
To  the  faint  summer,  beggared  now  and  old, 
Pour  back  the  sunshine  hoarded  'neath  her  favoring  eye. 

The  ash  her  purple  drops  forgivingly 
And  sadly,  breaking  not  the  general  hush ; 

The  maple-swamps  glow  like  a  sunset  sea, 
Each  leaf  a  ripple  with  its  separate  flush  ; 

And  round  the  wood's  edge  creeps  the  skirting  bla/.e 

Of  bushes  low,  as  when  on  cloudy  days, 
Kre  the  rain  falls,  the  cautious  farmer  burns  his  brush. 


'KKK  THE   MAIN    KAI.LS,   TIIK  CAfTIOfS   FARMER  BOtNS  HIS   BRUSH. 

O'er  yon  low  wall,  which  guards  one  unkempt  zone, 
Where  vines  and  weeds  and  scrub-oaks  intertwine 

Safe  from  the  plough,  whose  rough,  discordant  stone 
Is  massed  to  one  soft  gray  by  lichens  fine, 

The  tangled  blackberry,  crossed  and  recrossed,  weaves 

A  prickly  network  of  ensanguined  leaves ; 
Hard  by,  with  coral  beads,  the  prim  black-alders  shine. 

Pillaring  with  flame  this  crumbling  boundary, 
Whose  loose  blocks  topple  'neath  the  ploughboy's  foot, 


2ln  fn&tan*Summer  TRcverie.  289 

Who,  with  each  sense  shut  fast  except  the  eye, 
Creeps  close  and  scares  the  jay  he  hoped  to  shoot, 
The  woodbine  up  the  elm's  straight  stem  aspires, 
Coiling  it,  harmless,  with  autumnal  fires ; 
In  the  ivy's  paler  blaze  the  martyr  oak  stands  mute. 

Below,  the  Charles— -a  strip  of  nether  sky, 
Now  hid  by  rounded  apple-trees  between, 

Whose  gaps  the  misplaced  sail  sweeps  bellying  by, 
Now  flickering  golden  through  a  woodland  screen, 

Then  spreading  out,  at  his  next  turn  beyond, 

A  silver  circle  like  an  inland  pond — 
Slips  seaward  silently  through  marshes  purple  and  green. 

Dear  marshes !  vain  to  him  the  gift  of  sight 
Who  cannot  in  their  various  incomes  share, 

From  every  season  drawn,  of  shade  and  light, 
Who  sees  in  them  but  levels  brown  and  bare ; 

Each  change  of  storm  or  sunshine  scatters  free 

On  them  its  largess  of  variety, 
For  Nature  with  cheap  means  still  works  her  wonders  rare. 

In  Spring  they  lie  one  broad  expanse  of  green, 
O'er  which  the  light  winds  run  with  glimmering  feet: 

Here,  yellower  stripes  track  out  the  creek  unseen, 
There,  darker  growths  o'er  hidden  ditches  meet ; 

And  purpler  stains  show  where  the  blossoms  crowd, 

As  if  the  silent  shadow  of  a  cloud 
Hung  there  becalmed,  with  the  next  breath  to  fleet. 

All  round,  upon  the  river's  slippery  edge, 
Witching  to  deeper  calm  the  drowsy  tide, 

Whispers  and  leans  the  breeze-entangling  sedge ; 
Through  emerald  glooms  the  lingering  waters  slide, 

Or,  sometimes  wavering,  throw  back  the  sun, 

And  the  stiff  banks  in  eddies  melt  and  run 
Of  dimpling  light,  and  with  the  current  seem  to  glide. 

In  Summer  't  is  a  blithesome  sight  to  see, 
As,  step  by  step,  with  measured  swing,  they  pass, 

The  wide-ranked  mowers  wading  to  the  knee, 
Their  sharp  scythes  panting  through  the  thick  set  grass ; 

Then,  stretched  beneath  a  rick's  shade  in  a  ring, 

Their  nooning  take,  while  one  begins  to  sing 
A  stave  that  droops  and  dies  'neath  the  close  sky  of  brass. 


290  an  1n&tan*Summer  "Keverie. 

Meanwhile  that  devil-may-care,  the  bobolink, 
Remembering  duty,  in  mid-quaver  stops 

Just  ere  he  sweeps  o'er  rapture's  tremulous  brink, 
And  'twixt  the  winrows  most  demurely  drops, 

A  decorous  bird  of  business,  who  provides 

For  his  brown  mate  and  lledglings  six  besides, 
And  looks  from  right  to  left,  a  farmer  mid  his  crops. 

Another  change  subdues  them  in  the  Fall, 
Hut  saddens  not;  they  still  show  merrier  tints, 

Though  sober  russet  seems  to  cover  all ; 
When  the  first  sunshine  through  their  dew-drops  glints, 

Look  how  the  yellow  clearness,  streamed  across, 

Redeems  with  rarer  hues  the  season's  loss, 
As  Dawn's  feet  there  had  touched  and  left  their  rosy  prints. 

Or  come  when  sunset  gives  its  freshened  zest, 
Lean  o'er  the  bridge  and  let  the  ruddy  thrill, 

While  the  shorn  sun  swells  down  the  hazy  west, 
Cilow  opposite; — the  marshes  drink  their  fill 

And  swoon  with  purple  veins,  then  slowly  fade 

Through  pink  to  brown,  as  eastward  moves  the  shade, 
Lengthening  with  stealthy  creep,  of  Simond's  darkening  hill. 

Later,  and  yet  ere  Winter  wholly  shuts, 
I -".re  through  the  first  dry  snow  the  runner  grates. 

And  the  loath  cart-wheel  screams  in  slippery  nits, 
While  firmer  ice  the  eager  boy  awaits, 

Trying  each  buckle  and  strap  beside  the  fire, 

And  until  bedtime  plays  with  his  desire, 
Twenty  times  putting  on  and  off  his  new-bought  skates;- — 

Then,  every  morn,  the  river's  banks  shine  bright 
With  smooth  plate-armor,  treacherous  and  frail, 

By  the  frost's  clinking  hammers  forged  at  night, 
'(iainst  which  the  lances  of  the  sun  prevail, 
(living  a  pretty  emblem  of  the  day 
When  guiltier  arms  in  light  shall  melt  away, 
And  states  shall  move  free-limbed,  loosed  from  war's  cramp 
ing  mail. 

And  now  those  waterfalls  the  ebbing  river 
Twice  every  day  creates  on  either  side 

Tinkle,  as  through  their  fresh-sparred  grots  they  shiver 
In  grass-arched  channels  to  the  sun  denied  ; 


2ln  inOtansSummcc  iRcverte. 

High  flaps  in  sparkling  blue  the  far-heard  crow, 
The  silvered  flats  gleam  frostily  below, 
Suddenly  drops  die  gull  and  breaks  the  glassy  tide. 

But  crowned  in  turn  by  vying  seasons  three, 
Their  winter  halo  hath  a  fuller  ring; 

This  glory  seems  to  rest  immovably, — 
The  others  were  too  fleet  aud  vanishing ; 


291 


"TUVlNi;  EACH    1U-CKI.E  AN'I)  STRAP  BESIDE  TIIK  FIRE." 

When  the  hid  tide  is  at  its  highest  How, 
O'er  marsh  and  stream  one  breathless  trance  of  snow 
With  brooding  fulness  awes  and  hushes  everything. 

The  sunshine  seems  blown  off  by  the-  bleak  wind, 
As  pale  as  formal  candles  lit  by  day ; 

Gropes  to  the  sea  the  river  dumb  and  blind; 


292  Bn  In&ian=Summet  TRcvcric. 

The  brown  ricks,  snow-thatched  by  the  storm  in  play, 
Show  pearly  breakers  combing  o'er  their  lee, 
White  crests  as  of  some  just  enchanted  sea, 
Checked  in  their  maddest  leap  and  hanging  poised  midway. 

But  when  the  eastern  blow,  with  rain  aslant, 
From  mid-sea's  prairies  green  and  rolling  plains 

Drives  in  his  wallowing  herds  of  billows  gaunt, 
And  the  roused  Charles  remembers  in  his  veins 

Old  Ocean's  blood  and  snaps  his  gyves  of  frost, 

That  tyrannous  silence  on  the  shores  is  tost 
In  dreary  wreck,  and  crumbling  desolation  reigns. 

Edgewise  or  flat,  in  Druid-like  device, 
With  leaden  pools  between  or  gullies  bare, 

The  blocks  lie  strewn,  a  bleak  Stonehenge  of  ice ; 
No  life,  no  sound,  to  break  the  grim  despair, 

Save  sullen  plunge,  as  through  the  sedges  stiff 

Down  crackles  riverward  some  thaw-sapped  cliff, 
Or  when  the  close-wedged  fields  of  ice  crunch  here  and  there. 

But  let  me  turn  from  fancy-pictured  scenes 
To  that  whose  pastoral  calm  before  me  lies  : 

Here  nothing  harsh  or  rugged  intervenes  ; 
The  early  evening  with  her  misty  dyes 

Smooths  off  the  ravelled  edges  of  the  nigh, 

Relieves  the  distant  with  her  cooler  sky, 
And  tones  the  landscape  down,  and  soothes  the  wearied  eyes. 

There  gleams  my  native  village,  dear  to  me, 
Though  higher  change's  waves  each  day  are  seen, 

Whelming  fields  famed  in  boyhood's  history, 
Sanding  with  houses  the  diminished  green  ; 

There,  in  red  brick,  which  softening  time  defies, 

Stand  square  and  stiff  the  Muses'  factories ; — 
How  with  my  life  knit  up  is  every  well-known  scene! 

Flow  on,  dear  river !  not  alone  you  flow 
To  outward  sight,  and  through  your  marshes  wind  ; 

Fed  from  the  mystic  springs  of  long-ago, 
Your  twin  flows  silent  through  my  world  of  mind  : 

Grow  dim,  dear  marshes,  in  the  evening's  gray  ! 

Before  my  inner  sight  ye  stretch  away, 
And  will  forever,  though  these  fleshly  eyes  grow  blind. 

Beyond  the  hillock's  house-bespotted  swell, 
Where  Gothic  chapels  house  the  horse  and  chaise, 


Sn  fn£>ian«5ummer  IRcverie.  29;, 

Where  quiet  cits  in  Grecian  temples  dwell, 
Where  Coptic  tombs  resound  with  prayer  and  praise, 
Where  dust  and  mud  the  equal  year  divide, 
There  gentle  Allston  lived,  and  wrought,  and  died, 
Transfiguring  street  and  shop  with  his  illumined  gaze. 

Virgtliuin  i>idt  tantmn, — I  have  seen 
But  as  a  boy,  who  looks  alike  on  all, 

That  misty  hair,  that  fine  Undine-like  mien, 
Tremulous  as  down  to  feeling's  faintest  call; — 
Ah,  clear  old  homestead !  count  it  to  thy  fame 

That  thither  many  times  the  Painter  came ; — 
One  elm  yet  bears  his  name,  a  feathery  tree  and  tall. 

Swiftly  the  present  fades  in  memory's  glow, — 
( )ur  only  sure  possession  is  the  past ; 

The  village  blacksmith  died  a  month  ago, 
And  dim  to  me  the  forge's  roaring  blast ; 
Soon  fire-new  meduevals  we  shall  see 
Oust  the  black  smithy  from  its  chestnut-tree, 
And  that  hewn  down,  perhaps,  the  beehive  green  and  vast. 

How  many  times,  prouder  than  king  on  throne, 
Loosed  from  the  village  school-dame's  A's  and  B's, 

Panting  have  I  the  creaky  bellows  blown, 
And  watched  the  pent  volcano's  red  increase, 

Then  paused  to  see  the  ponderous  sledge,  brought  down 
By  that  hard  arm  voluminous  and  brown, 
From  the  white  iron  swarm  its  golden  vanishing  bees. 

Dear  native  town  !  whose  choking  elms  each  year 
With  eddying  dust  before  their  time  turn  gray, 

Pining  for  rain, — to  me  thy  dust  is  dear; 
It  glorifies  the  eve  of  summer  day, 

And  when  the  westering  sun  half  sunken  burns, 
The  mote-thick  air  to  deepest  orange  turns, 
The  westward  horseman  rides  through  clouds  of  gold  away. 

So  palpable,  I  've  seen  those  unshorn  few, 
The  six  old  willows  at  the  causey's  end 

(Such  trees  Paul  Potter  never  dreamed  nor  drew), 
Through  this  dry  mist  their  checkering  shadows  send, 
Striped,  here  and  there,  with  many  a  long-drawn  thread, 
Where  streamed  through  leafy  chinks  the  trembling  red, 
Past  which,  in  one  bright  trail,  the  hangbird's  (lashes  blend. 


294  Cbe  Growtb  ct  tbc 

Yes,  dearer  far  thy  dust  than  all  that  e'er, 
Beneath  the  awarded  crown  of  victory, 

Gilded  the  blown  Olympic  charioteer; 
Though  lightly  prized  the  ribboned  parchments  three. 
Yet  collcgisse  juvat,  I  am  glad 
That  here  what  colleging  was  mine  I  had, — 
It  linked  another  tie,  dear  native  town,  with  thee ! 

Nearer  art  thou  than  simply  native  earth, 
My  dust  with  thine  concedes  a  deeper  tie;- 
A  closer  claim  thy  soil  may  well  put  forth, 
Something  of  kindred  more  than  sympathy; 
For  in  thy  bounds  I  reverently  laid  away 
That  blinding  anguish  of  forsaken  clay, 
That  title  I  seemed  to  have  in  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

That  portion  of  my  life  more  choice  to  me 
(Though  brief,  yet  in  itself  so  round  and  whole) 

Than  all  the  imperfect  residue  can  be ; — 
The  Artist  saw  his  statue  of  the  soul 

Was  perfect;  so,  with  one  regretful  stroke, 
The  earthen  model  into  fragments  broke, 
And  without  her  the  impoverished  seasons  roll. 


THE  GROWTH   OF   TilK    LKGKXD. 

A    FRAGMKNT. 

A   I,K<;KND  that  grew  in  the  forest's  hush 

Slowly  as  tear-drops  gather  and  gush. 

When  a  word  some  poet  chanced  to  say 

Ages  ago,  in  his  careless  way, 

Brings  our  youth  back  to  us  out  of  his  shroud 

Clearly  as  ^nder  yon  thunder-cloud 

I  see  that  white  sea-gull.      It  grew  and  grew, 

From  the  pine-trees  gathering  a  sombre  hue, 

Till  it  seems  a  mere  murmur  out  of  the  vast 

Norwegian  forests  of  the  past ; 

And  it  grew  itself  like  a  true  Northern  pine, 

First  a  little  slender  line, 

Like  a  mermaid's  green  eyelash,  and  then  anon 

A  stem  that  a  tower  might  rest  upon, 

Standing  spear-straight  in  the  waist-deep  moss, 

Its  bony  roots  clutching  around  and  across. 


Cbe  <3ro\vtb  of  tbc  Xcgcnfc.  295 

As  if  they  would  tear  up  earth's  heart  in  their  grasp 

Kre  the  storm  should  uproot  them  or  make  them  unclasp ; 

Its  cloudy  boughs  singing,  as  suiteth  the  pine, 

To  shrunk  snow-bearded  sea-kings  old  songs  of  the  brine, 

Till  they  straightened  and  let  their  staves  fall  to  the  floor, 

Hearing  waves  moan  again  on  the  perilous  shore 

Of  Vinland,  perhaps,  while  their  prow  groped  its  way 

'Twixt  the  frothy  gnashed  tusks  of  some  ship-crunching  bay. 

So,  pine-like,  the  legend  grew,  strong-limbed  and  tall, 

As  the  Gypsy  child  grows  that  eats  crusts  in  the  hail ; 

It  sucked  the  whole  strength  of  the  earth  and  the  sky. 

Spring,  Summer,  Fall,  Winter,  all  brought  it  supply ; 

'T  was  a  natural  growth,  and  stood  fearlessly  there, 

A  true  part  of  the  landscape  as  sea,  land,  and  air; 

For  it  grew  in  good  times,  ere  the  fashion  it  was 

To  force  up  these  wild  births  of  the  woods  under  grass, 

And  so  if  't  is  told  as  it  should  be  told, 

Though  't  were  sung  under  Venice's  moonlight  of  gold. 

You  would  hear  the  old  voice  of  its  mother,  the  pine, 

Murmur  sealike  and  northern  through  every  line, 

And  the  verses  should  hang  self-sustained  and  free, 

Round  the  vibrating  stem  of  the  melody, 

Like  the  lithe  sunsteeped  limbs  of  the  parent  tree. 

Yes,  the  pine  is  the  mother  of  legends ;  what  food 

For  their  grim  roots  is  left  when  the  thousand-yeared  wood. 

The  dim-aisled  cathedral,  whose  tall  arches  spring 

Light,  sinewy,  graceful,  firm-set  as  the  wing 

From  Michael's  white  shoulder,  is  hewn  and  defaced 

By  iconoclast  axes  in  desperate  waste. 

And  its  wrecks  seek  the  ocean  it  prophesied  long, 

Cassandra-like,  crooning  its  mystical  song  ? 

Then  the  legends  go  with  them, — even  yet  on  the  sea 

A  wild  virtue  is  left  in  the  touch  of  the  tree. 

And  the  sailor's  night-watches  are  thrilled  to  the  core 

With  the  lineal  offspring  of  Odin  and  Thor. 

Yes,  wherever  the  pine-wood  has  never  let  in. 

Since  the  day  of  creation,  the  light  and  the  din 

Of  manifold  life,  but  has  safely  conveyed 

From  the  midnight  primeval  its  armful  of  shade, 

And  has  kept  the  weird  Past  with  its  Sagas  alive 

Within  sound  of  the  hum  of  To-day's  busy  hive. 

There  the  legend  takes  root  in  the  age-gathered  gloom. 

And  its  murmurous  boughs  for  their  tossing  find  room. 


"WHEKE  THE  LUMBERERS  HIT  BY  THE  LOG-KIKES." 


a  Contrast.  297 

Where  Aroostook,  far-heard,  seems  to  sob  as  he  goes 
Groping  down  to  the  sea  'neath  his  mountainous  snows ; 
Where  the  lake's  frore  Sahara  of  never-tracked  white, 
When  the  crack  shoots  across  it,  complains  to  the  night 
With  a  long,  lonely  moan,  that  leagues  northward  is  lost, 
As  the  ice  shrinks  away  from  the  tread  of  the  frost ; 
Where  the  lumberers  sit  by  the  log-fires  which  throw, 
Their  own  threatening  shadows  far  round  o'er  the  snow, 
When  the  wolf  howls  aloof,  and  the  wavering  glare 
Flashes  out  from  the  blackness  the  eyes  of  the  bear, 
\Vhen  the  wood's  huge  recesses,  half-lighted,  supply 
A  canvas  where  Fancy  her  mad  brush  may  try, 
Blotting  in  giant  Horrors  that  venture  not  down 
Through  the  right-angled  streets  of  the  brisk,  whitewashed 

town, 

But  skulk  in  the  depths  of  the  measureless  wood 
Mid  the  Dark'  creeping  whispers  that  curdle  the  blood, 
When  the  eye,  glanced  in  dread  o'er  the  shoulder,  may  dream, 
Ere  it  shrinks  to  the  camp-fire's  companioning  gleam, 
That  it  saw  the  fierce  ghost  of  the  Red  Man  crouch  back 
To  the  shroud  of  the  fee-trunk's  invincible  black  ; — 
There  the  old  shapes  crowd  thick  round  the  pine-shadowed 

camp, 

Which  shun  the  keen  gleam  of  the  scholarly  lamp. 
And  the  seed  of  the  legend  finds  true  Norland  ground. 
While  the  border-tale's  told  and  the  canteen  flits  round. 


A  CONTRAST, 

THY  love  thou  sentest  oft  to  me, 
And  still  as  oft  I  thrust  it  back ; 

Thy  messengers  I  could  not  see 
In  those  who  everything  did  lack, 
The  poor,  the  outcast,  and  the  black. 

Pride  held  his  hand  before  mine  eyes, 

The  world  with  flattery  stuffed  mine  ears ; 

I  looked  to  see  a  monarch's  guise, 
Nor  dreamed  thy  love  would  knock  for  years, 
Poor,  naked,  fettered,  full  of  tears. 

Yet,  when  I  sent  my  love  to  thee, 

Thou  with  a  smile  didst  take  it  in, 
And  entertain'dst  it  rovallv, 


298  Extreme   'Unction. 

Though  grimed  with  earth,  with  hunger  thin, 
And  leprous  with  the  taint  of  sin. 

Now  every  day  thy  love  I  meet, 
As  o'er  the  earth  it  wanders  wide, 

With  weary  step  and  bleeding  feet, 
Still  knocking  at  the  heart  of  pride 
And  offering  grace,  though  still  denied. 


EXTREME  UNCTION. 

Go !  leave  me,  Priest ;  my  soul  would  be 

Alone  with  the  consoler,  Death ; 
Far  sadder  eyes  than  thine  will  see 

This  crumbling  clay  yield  up  its  breath  ; 
These  shrivelled  hands  have  deeper  stains 

Than  holy  oil  can  cleanse  away, 
Hands  that  have  plucked  the  world's  coarse  gains 

As  erst  they  plucked  the  flowers  of  May. 

Call,  if  thou  canst,  to  those  gray  eyes 

Some  faith  from  youth's  traditions  wrung, 
This  fruitless  husk  which  dustward  dries 

Has  been  a  heart  once,  has  been  young; 
On  this  bowed  head  the  awful  Past 

Once  laid  its  consecrating  hands ; 
The  future  in  its  purpose  vast 

Paused,  waiting  my  supreme  commands. 

ISut  look !  whose  shadows  block  the  door  ? 

Who  are  those  two  that  stand  aloof  ? 
See !  on  my  hands  this  freshening  gore 

Writes  o'er  again  its  crimson  proof ! 
My  looked-for  death-bed  guests  are  met ; 

There  my  dead  Youth  doth  wring  its  hands 
And  there,  with  eyes  that  goad  me  yet, 

The  ghost  of  my  Ideal  stands ! 

God  bends  from  out  the  deep  and  says, 
"  I  gave  thee  the  great  gift  of  life; 
Wast  thou  not  called  in  many  ways  ? 

Art  not  my  earth  and  heaven  at  strife  ? 
I  gave  thee  of  my  seed  to  sow, 

Bringest  thou  me  my  hundred-fold  ?" 
Can  I  look  up  with  face  aglow, 

And  answer,  "  Father,  here  is  gold  ?" 


JEjtremc    "Unction.  299 

I  have  been  innocent ;  God  knows 

When  first  this  wasted  life  began, 
Not  grape  with  grape  more  kindly  grows, 

Than  I  with  every  brother-man  : 
Now  here  I  gasp ;  what  lose  my  kind, 

When  this  fast-ebbing  breath  shall  part  ? 
What  bands  of  love  and  service  bind 

This  being  to  the  world's  sad  heart  ? 

Christ  still  was  wandering  o'er  the  earth 

Without  a  place  to  lay  his  head  ; 
He  found  free  welcome  at  my  hearth, 

He  shared  my  cup  and  brake  my  bread : 
Now,  when  I  hear  those  steps  sublime, 

That  bring  the  other  world  to  this, 
My  snake-turned  nature,  sunk  in  slime, 

Starts  sideway  with  defiant  hiss. 

Upon  the  hour  when  I  was  born, 

God  said,  "  Another  man  shall  be," 
And  the  great  Maker  did  not  scorn 

Out  of  himself  to  fashion  me ; 
He  sunned  me  \vith  his  ripening  looks 

And  Heaven's  rich  instincts  in  me  grew, 
As  effortless  as  woodland  nooks 

Send  violets  up  and  paint  them  blue. 

Yes,  I  who  now,  with  angry  tears, 

Am  exiled  back  to  brutish  clod. 
Have  borne  unquenched  for  fourscore  years 

A  spark  of  the  eternal  God  ; 
And  to  what  end  ?     How  yield  I  back 

The  trust  for  such  high  uses  given  ? 
Heaven's  light  hath  but  revealed  a  track 

Whereby  to  crawl  away  from  heaven. 

Men  think  it  is  an  awful  sight 

To  see  a  soul  just  set  adrift 
On  that  drear  voyage  from  whose  night 

The  ominous  shadows  never  lift ; 
But  't  is  more  awful  to  behold 

A  helpless  infant  newly  born, 
Whose  little  hands  unconscious  hold 

The  keys  of  darkness  and  of  morn. 


300  Cbe 

Mine  held  them  once  ;  I  flung  away 

Those  keys  that  might  have  open  set 
The  golden  sluices  of  the  day, 

But  clutch  the  keys  of  darkness  yet ; 
I  hear  the  reapers  singing  go 

Into  God's  harvest;  I  that  might 
With  them  have  chosen,  here  below 

Grope  shuddering  at  the  gates  of  night. 

O  glorious  Youth,  that  once  wast  mine  ! 

O  high  Ideal !  all  in  vain 
Ye  enter  at  this  ruined  shrine 

Whence  worship  ne'er  shall  rise  again  ; 
The  bat  and  owl  inhabit  here, 

The  snake  nests  in  the  altar-stone, 
The  sacred  vessels  moulder  near, 

The  image  of  the  God  is  gone. 


THE  OAK. 

What  gnarled  stretch,  what  depth  of  shade,  is  his! 

There  needs  no  crown  to  mark  the  forest's  king ; 
How  in  his  leaves  outshines  full  summer's  bliss! 

Sun,  storm,  rain,  dew,  to  him  their  tribute  bring, 
Which  he  with  such  benignant  royalty 

Accepts,  as  overpayeth  what  is  lent ; 
All  nature  seems  his  vassal  proud  to  be, 

And  cunning  only  for  his  ornament. 

How  towers  he,  too,  amid  the  billowed  snows, 

An  unquelled  exile  from  the  summer's  throne, 
Whose  plain,  uncinctured  front  more  kingly  shows, 

Now  that  the  obscuring  courtier  leaves  are  flown. 
His  boughs  make  music  of  the  winter  air, 

Jewelled  with  sleet,  like  some  cathedral  front 
Where  clinging  snow-flakes  with  quaint  art  repair 

The  dents  and  furrows  of  time's  envious  brunt. 

How  doth  his  patient  strength  the  rude  March  wind 

Persuade  to  seem  glad  breaths  of  summer  breeze, 
And  win  the  soil  that  fain  would  be  unkind, 

To  swell  his  revenues  with  proud  increase ! 
He  is  the  gem ;  and  all  the  landscape  wide 

(So  doth  his  grandeur  isolate  the  sense) 
Seems  but  the  setting,  worthless  all  beside, 

An  empty  socket,  were  he  fallen  thence. 


Bbovc  anfc  ^Selovv.  301 

So,  from  oft  converse  with  life's  wintry  gales, 

Should  man  learn  how  to  clasp  with  tougher  roots 
The  inspiring  earth ;  how  otherwise  avails 

The  leaf-creating  sap  that  sunward  shoots  ? 
So  every  year  that  falls  with  noiseless  flake 

Should  fill  old  scars  up  on  the  stormward  side, 
And  make  hoar  age  revered  for  age's  sake, 

Not  for  traditions  of  youth's  leafy  pride. 

So,  from  the  pinched  soil  of  a  churlish  fate, 

True  hearts  compel  the  sap  of  sturdier  growth. 
So  between  earth  and  heaven  stand  simply  great, 

That  these  shall  seem  but  their  attendants  both ; 
For  nature's  forces  with  obedient  zeal 

Wait  on  the  rooted  faith  and  oaken  will ; 
As  quickly  the  pretender's  cheat  they  feel. 

And  turn  mad  Pucks  to  tlout  and  mock  him  still. 

Lord !  all  thy  works  are  lessons ;  each  contains 

Some  emblem  of  man's  all-containing  soul ; 
Shall  he  make  fruitless  all  thy  glorious  pains. 

Delving  within  thy  grace  an  eyeless  mole  ? 
Make  me  the  least  of  thy  Dodona-grove, 

Cause  me  some  message  of  thy  truth  to  bring, 
Speak  but  a  word  through  me,  nor  let  thy  love 

Among  my  boughs  disdain  to  perch  and  sing. 


ABOVE   AND   BELOW. 
I. 

O  DWELLERS  in  the  valley-land, 

Who  in  deep  twilight  grope  and  cower, 
Till  the  slow  mountain's  dial  hand 

Shorten  to  noon's  triumphal  hour, 
While  ye  sit  idle,  do  ye  think 

The  Lord's  great  work  sits  idle  too  ? 
That  light  dare  not  o'erleap  the  brink 

Of  morn,  because  't  is  dark  with  you  ? 

Though  yet  your  valleys  skulk  in  night, 
In  God's  ripe  fields  the  day  is  cried, 

And  reapers,  with  their  sickles  bright, 
Troop,  singing  down  the  mountain-side 

Come  up,  and  feel  what  health  there  is 
In  the  frank  Dawn's  delighted  eyes. 


302  above  anD  JBclow. 

As,  bending  with  a  pitying  kiss. 

The  night-shed  tears  of  Earth  she  dries ! 

The  Lord  wants  reapers :  O,  mount  up, 
Before  night  comes,  and  says,  "Too  late! 

Stay  not  for  taking  scrip  or  cup. 
The  Master  hungers  while  ye  wait: 


AND  KKAl'KHS.   WITH   THKIK  SICKLKS    BRIGHT,  TROO1' 
SINGING,  DOWN  THE    MOUNTAIN -SIDE." 

'T  is  from  these  heights  alone  your  eyes, 
The  advancing  spears  of  day  can  see, 

That  o'er  the  eastern  hill-tops  rise, 
To  break  your  long  captivity. 

II. 

Lone  watcher  on  the  mountain-height, 

It  is  right  precious  to  behold 
The  first  long  surf  of  climbing  light 


Captive.  303 


Flood  all  the  thirsty  east  with  gold; 
But  we,  who  in  the  shadow  sit, 

Know  also  when  the  day  is  nigh, 
Seeing  thy  shining  forehead  lit 

With  his  inspiring  prophecy. 

Thou  hast  thine  office ;  we  have  our?  • 

God  lacks  not  early  service  here, 
But  what  are  thine  eleventh  hours 

He  counts  with  us  for  morning  cheer; 
Our  day,  for  Him,  is  long  enough, 

And  when  He  giveth  work  to  do, 
The  bruised  reed  is  amply  tough 

To  pierce  the  shield  of  error  through. 

But  not  the  less  do  thou  aspire 

Light's  earlier  messages  to  preach ; 
Keep  back  no  syllable  of  fire, 

Plunge  deep  the  rowels  of  thy  speech. 
Yet  God  deems  not  thine  ;rried  sight 

More  worthy  than  our  twilight  dim; 
For  meek  Obedience,  too,  is  Light. 

And  following  that  is  finding  Him. 


THE  CAPTIVE. 

IT  was  past  the  hour  of  trysting, 
But  she  lingered  for  him  still ; 

Like  a  child,  the  eager  streamlet 
Leaped  and  laughed  adown  the  hill, 

Happy  to  be  free  at  twilight 
From  its  toiling  at  the  mill. 

Then  the  great  moon  on  a  sudden 
Ominous,  and  red  as  blood, 

Startling  as  a  new  creation, 
O'er  the  eastern  hill-top  stood, 

Casting  deep  and  deeper  shadows 
Through  the  mystery  of  the  wood. 

Dread  closed  huge  and  vague  about  her, 
And  her  thoughts  turned  fearfully 

To  her  heart,  if  there  some  shelter 
From  the  silence  there  might  be, 

Like  bare  cedars  leaning  inland 
From  the  blighting  of  the  sea. 


304  Cbc  Captive. 

Yet  he  came  not,  and  the  stillness 
Dampened  round  her  like  a  tomb ; 

She  could  feel  cold  eyes  of  spirits 
Looking  on  her  through  the  gloom, 

She  could  hear  the  groping  footsteps 
Of  some  blind,  gigantic  doom. 

Suddenly  the  silence  wavered 
Like  a  light  mist  in  the  wind, 

For  a  voice  broke  gently  through  it, 
Felt  like  a  sunshine  by  the  blind, 

And  the  dread,  like  mist  in  sunshine, 
Furled  serenely  from  her  mind. 

"  Once  my  love,  my  love  forever, 

Flesh  or  spirit,  still  the  same, 

If  I  missed  the  hour  of  trysting, 

Do  not  think  my  faith  to  blame  ; 
I,  alas,  was  made  a  captive, 
As  from  Holy  Land  I  came. 

"  On  a  green  spot  in  the  desert, 
Gleaming  like  an  emerald  star, 

Where  a  palm-tree,  in  lone  silence, 
Yearning  for  its  mate  afar, 

Droops  above  a  silver  runnel, 
Slender  as  a  scimitar, 

"  There  thou'lt  find  the  humble  postern 
To  the  castle  of  my  foe ; 

If  thy  love  burn  clear  and  faithful. 
Strike  the  gate-way  green  and  low, 

Ask  to  enter,  and  the  warder 
Surely  will  not  say  thee.no." 

Slept  again  the  aspen  silence, 
But  her  loneliness  was  o'er ; 

Round  her  heart  a  motherly  patience 
Wrapped  its  arms  forevermore ; 

From  her  soul  ebbed  back  the  sorrow., 
Leaving  smooth  the  golden  shore. 

Donned  she  now  the  pilgrim  scallop, 
Took  the  pilgrim  staff  in  hand ; 

Like  a  cloud-shade,  Hitting  eastward, 
Wandered  she  o'er  sea  and  land ; 


"  'XKATH  THE  PALM  XEXT    DAY  SO.MK    AKARS 
KOl'Xl)   A    COKl'SK    1'1'OX    TIIK   Tl'KK." 


306  Gbe  JSircb=Cree. 

Her  soft  footsteps  in  the  desert 
Fell  like  cool  rain  on  the  sand. 

Soon,  beneath  the  palm-tree's  shadow, 
Knelt  she  at  the  postern  low ; 

And  thereat  she  knocked  full  gently, 
Fearing  much  the  warder's  no ; 

All  her  heart  stood  still  and  listened, 
As  the  door  swung  backward  slow. 

There  she  saw  no  surly  warder 
With  an  eye  like  bolt  and  bar; 

Through  her  soul  a  sense  of  music 
Throbbed,  and  like  a  guardian  Lar, 

On  the  threshold  stood  an  angel, 
Bright  and  silent  as  a  star. 

Fairest  seemed  he  of  God's  seraphs, 
And  her  spirit,  lily-wise, 

Blossomed  when  he  turned  upon  her 
The  deep  welcome  of  his  eyes. 

Sending  upward  to  that  sunlight 
All  its  dew  for  sacrifice. 

Then  she  heard  a  voice  come  onward 
Singing  with  a  rapture  new, 

As  Eve  heard  the  songs  in  Eden, 
Dropping  earthward  with  the  dew, 

Well  she  knew  the  happy  singer, 
Well  the  happy  song  she  knew. 

Forward  leaped  she  o'er  the  threshold, 
Eager  as  a  glancing  surf; 

Fell  from  her  the  spirit's  languor, 
Fell  from  her  the  body's  scurf; 

'Neath  the  palm  next  day  some  Arabs 
Found  a  corpse  upon  the  turf. 


THE  BIRCH-TREE. 

RIPPLING  through  thy  branches  goes  the  sunshine, 
Among  thy  leaves  that  palpitate  forever, 
Ovid  in  thee  a  pining  Nymph  had  prisoned, 
The  soul  once  of  some  tremulous  inland  river, 
Quivering  to  tell  her  woe,  but  ah!  dumb,  dumb  forever! 


JBfrcb=Cree.  307 

While  all  the  forest,  witched  with  slumberous  moonshine 

Holds  up  its  leaves  in  happy,  happy  silence, 

Waiting  the  dew,  with  breath  and  pulse  suspended, 

I  hear  afar  thy  whispering,  gleamy  islands, 

And  track  thee  wakeful  still  amid  the  wide-hung  silence. 

Upon  the  brink  of  some  wood-nestled  lakelet, 
Thy  foliage,  like  the  tresses  of  a  Dryad, 
Dripping  round  thy  slim,  white  stem,  whose  shadow 
Slopes  quivering  down  the  water's  

dusky  quiet,  H^IS  I  III 

Thou  shrink'st  as  on  her  bath's 

edge  would  some  startled  Dryad.  I  y  I 

•^MH  "^^  Jfc^Kr  .    -  !«• 

Thou  art  the  go-between  of  rustic 

lovers ; 
Thy  white  bark  has  their  secrets 

in  its  keeping; 
Reuben  writes  here  the  happy 

name  of  Patience, 
And  thy  lithe  boughs  hang 

murmuring  and  weeping 
Above  her,  as  she  steals  the 

mystery  from  thy  keeping 

Thou  art  to  me  like  my  beloved 

maiden, 
So  frankly  coy,  so  full  of  trembly 

confidences ; 
Thy  shadow  scarce  seems  shade, 

thy  pattering  leaflets 
Sprinkle  their  gathered  sunshine 

o'er  my  senses, 
And  Nature  gives  me  all  her  "RECBEX  WRITES  HERE  THE  HAITY 

summer  confidences. 

Whether  my  heart  with  hope  or  sorrow  tremble, 
Thou  sympathizest  still ;  wild  and  unquiet, 
I  fling  me  down ;  thy  ripple,  like  a  river, 
Flows  valleyward,  where  calmness  is,  and  by  it 
My  heart  is  floated  down  into  the  land  of  quiet. 


308          an  interview  witb  rtMles  StanDisb. 

AN  INTERVIEW  WITH  MILES  STANDISH. 

I  SAT  one  evening  in  my  room, 

In  that  sweet  hour  of  twilight 
When  blended  thoughts,  half  light,  half  gloom. 

Throng  through  the  spirit's  skylight ; 
The  flames  by  fits  curled  round  the  bars, 

Or  up  the  chimney  crinkled, 
While  embers  dropped  like  falling  stars, 

And  in  the  ashes  tinkled. 

I  sat  and  mused ;  the  fire  burned  low, 

And,  o'er  my  senses  stealing, 
Crept  something  of  the  ruddy  glow 

That  bloomed  on  wall  and  ceiling ; 
My  pictures  (they  are  very  few, 

The  heads  of  ancient  wise  men) 
Smoothed  down  their  knotted  fronts  and  grew 

As  rosy  as  excisemen. 

My  antique  high-backed  Spanish  chair 

Felt  thrills  through  wood  and  leather, 
That  had  been  strangers  since  whilere, 

'Mid  Andalusian  heather, 
The  oak  that  made  its  sturdy  frame 

His  happy  arms  stretched  over 
The  ox  whose  fortunate  hide  became 

The  bottom's  polished  cover. 

It  came  out  in  that  famous  bark, 

That  brought  our  sires  intrepid, 
Capacious  as  another  ark 

For  furniture  decrepit ; 
For,  as  that  saved  of  bird  and  beast 

A  pair  for  propagation, 
So  has  the  seed  of  these  increased 

And  furnished  half  the  nation. 

Kings  sit,  they  say,  in  slippery  seats ; 

But  those  slant  precipices 
Of  ice  the  northern  voyager  meets 

Less  slippery  are  than  this  is ; 
To  cling  therein  would  pass  the  wit 

Of  royal  man  or  woman, 
And  whatsoe'er  can  stay  in  it 

Is  more  or  less  than  human. 


Su  Unterview  witb  flfciles  StanDteb.          309 

My  wonder,  then,  was  not  unmixed 

With  merciful  suggestion, 
When,  as  my  roving  eyes  grew  fixed 

Upon  the  chair  in  question, 
I  saw  its  trembling  arms  enclose 

A  figure  grim  and  rusty, 
Whose  doublet  plain  and  plainer  hose 

Were  something  worn  and  dusty. 

Now  even  such  men  as  Nature  forms 

Merely  to  fill  the  street  with, 
Once  turned  to  ghosts  by  hungry  worms, 

Are  serious  things  to  meet  with  ; 
Your  penitent  spirits  are  no  jokes, 

And,  though  I  'm  not  averse  to 
A  quiet  shade,  even  they  are  folks 

One  cares  not  to  speak  first  to. 

Who  knows,  thought  I,  but  he  has  come, 

By  Charon  kindly  ferried, 
To  tell  me  of  a  mighty  sum 

Behind  my  wainscot  buried  ? 
There  is  a  buccaneerish  air 

About  that  garb  outlandish — 
Just  then  the  ghost  drew  up  his  chair 

And  said,  "  My  name  is  Standish. 

' '  I  come  from  Plymouth,  deadly  bored 

With  toasts,  and  songs,  and  speeches, 
As  long  and  fiat  as  my  old  sword, 

As  threadbare  as  my  breeches : 
They  understand  us  Pilgrims !  they, 

Smooth  men  with  rosy  faces, 
Strength's  knots  and  gnarls  all  pared  away, 

And  varnish  in  their  places ! 

We  had  some  toughness  in  our  grain, 

The  eye  to  rightly  see  us  is 
Not  just  the  one  that  lights  the  brain 

Of  drawing-room  Tyrtaeuses : 
They  talk  about  their  Pilgrim  blood, 

Their  birthright  high  and  holy ! 
A  mountain-stream  that  ends  in  mud 

Methinks  is  melancholy. 


an  interview  witb  /BMIC6  stanDtsb. 

He  had  stiff  knees,  the  Puritan, 

That  were  not  good  at  bending ; 
The  homespun  dignity  of  man 

He  thought  was  worth  defending ; 
He  did  not,  with  his  pinchbeck  ore, 

His  country's  shame  forgotten. 
Gild  Freedom's  coffin  o'er  and  o'er, 

When  all  within  was  rotten. 

These  loud  ancestral  boasts  of  yours, 

How  can  they  else  than  vex  us  ? 
\Vhere  were  your  dinner  orators 

When  slavery  grasped  at  Texas  ? 
Dumb  on  his  knees  was  every  one 

That  now  is  bold  as  Qtsar ; 
Mere  pegs  to  hang  an  office  on 

Such  stalwart  men  as  these  are." 

Good  sir,"  I  said,  "  you  seem  much  stirred; 

The  sacred  compromises — 
Now  God  confound  the  dastard  word ! 

My  gall  thereat  arises : 
Northward  it  hath  this  sense  alone, 

That  you,  your  conscience  blinding. 
Shall  bow  your  fool's  nose  to  the  stone, 

When  slavery  feels  like  grinding. 

'T  is  shame  to  see  such  painted  sticks 

In  Vane's  and  Winthrop's  places, 
To  see  your  spirit  of  Seventy-six 

Drag  humbly  in  the  traces, 
With  slavery's  lash  upon  her  back, 

And  herds  of  office-holders 
To  shout  applause,  as,  with  a  crack, 

It  peels  her  patient  shoulders. 

We  forefathers  to  such  a  rout ! — 

No,  by  my  faith  in  God's  word  !" 
Half  rose  the  ghost,  and  half  drew  out 

The  ghost  of  his  old  broadsword, 
Then  thrust  it  slowly  back  again, 

And  said,  with  reverent  gesture, 
No,  Freedom,  no !  blood  should  not  stain 

The  hem  of  thy  white  vesture. 

I  feel  the  soul  in  me  draw  near 
The  mount  of  prophesying; 


Capture  of  jfuflitivc  Slaves. 

In  this  bleak  wilderness  I  hear 

A  John  the  Baptist  crying; 
Far  in  the  east  I  see  upleap 

The  streaks  of  first  forewarning, 
And  they  who  sowed  the  light  shall  reap 

The  golden  sheaves  of  morning. 

Child  of  our  travail  and  our  woe, 

Light  in  our  day  of  sorrow, 
Through  my  rapt  spirit  1  foreknow 

The  glory  of  thy  morrow  ; 
I  hear  great  steps,  that  through  the  shade 

Draw  nigher  still  and  nigher, 
And  voices  call  like  that  which  bade 

The  prophet  come  up  higher." 

1  looked,  no  form  mine  eyes  could  find, 

I  heard  the  red  cock  crowing, 
And  through  my  window-chinks  the  wind 

A  dismal  tune  was  blowing; 
Thought  I,  My  neighbor  Buckingham 

Hath  somewhat  in  him  gritty, 
Some  Pilgrim-stuff  that  hates  all  sham, 

And  he  will  print  my  ditty. 


ON  THE  CAPTURE  OF  CERTAIN  FUGITIVE  SLAVES 
NEAR  WASHINGTON. 

LOOK  on  who  will  in  apathy,  and  stifle  they  who  can, 

The  sympathies,   the  hopes,    the  words,  that  make  man   truly 

man ; 
Let  those  whose  hearts  are  dungeoned  up  with  interest  or  with 

ease 
Consent  to  hear  with  quiet  pulse  of  loathsome  deeds  like  these ! 


I  first  drew  in  New  England's  air,  and  from  her  hardy  breast 
Sucked  in  the  tyrant-hating  milk  that  will  not  let  me  rest; 
And  if  my  words  seem  treason  to  the  dullard  and  the  tame.-, 
T  is  but  my  Bay-State  dialect, — our  fathers  spake  the  same! 

Shame  on  the  costly  mockery  of  piling  stone  on  stone 
To  those  who  won  our  liberty,  the  heroes  dead  and  gone, 
While  we  look  coldly  on  and  see  law-shielded  ruffians  slay 
The  men  who  fain  would  win  their  own,  the  heroes  of  to-day! 


312 


Capture  of  ^fugitive  Slaves. 


"CONSENT  TO  HEAR  WITH  QUIET  ITLSK  OF  LOATHSOMK 
DEEDS  LIKE  THESE  !  " 

Are  we  pledged  to  craven  silence  ?     O,  fling  it  to  the  wind, 
The  parchment  wall  that  bars  us  from  the  least  of  human  kind, 
That  makes  us  cringe  and  temporize,  and  dumbly  stand  at  rest, 
While  Pity's  burning  flood  of  words  is  red-hot  in  the  breast! 

Though  we  break  our  fathers'  promise,  we  have  nobler  duties 

first; 

The  traitor  to  Humanity  is  the  traitor  most  accursed ; 
Man  is  more  than  Constitutions;  better  rot  beneath  the  sod, 
Than  be  true  to  Church  and  State  while  we  are  doubly  false  to 

God! 

We  owe  allegiance  to  the  State ;  but  deeper,  truer,  more, 
To  the  symthathies  that  God  hath  set  within  our  spirit's  core ; 
Our  country  claims  our  fealty;  we  grant  it  so,  but  then 
Before  Man  made  us  citizens,  great  Nature  made  us  men. 

He's  true  to  God  who's  true  to  man ;  wherever  wrong  is  done, 
To  the  humblest  and  the  weakest,  'neath  the  all-beholding  sun, 
That  wrong  is  also  done  to  us ;  and  they  are  slaves  most  base, 
Whose  love  of  right  is  for  themselves,  and  not  for  all  their  race. 

God  works  for  all.     Ye  cannot  hem  the  hope  of  being  free 
With  parallels  of  latitude,  with  mountain-range  or  sea. 
Put  golden  padlocks  on  Truth's  lips,  be  callous  as  ye  will, 
From  soul  to  soul,  o'er  all  the  w7orld,  leaps  one  electric  thrill. 

Chain  down  your  slaves  with  ignorance,  ye  cannot  keep  apart, 
With  all  your  craft  of  tyranny,  the  human  heart  from  heart ; 


Capture  of  ffugttive  Slaves.  313 

When  first  the  Pilgrims  landed  on  the  Bay  State's  iron  shore. 
The  word  went  forth  that  slavery  should  one  day  be  no  more. 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  'tis  decreed  our  slaves  shall  go, 

And  signs  to  us  are  offered,  as  erst  to  Pharaoh ; 

If  we  are  blind,  their  exodus,  like  Israel's  of  yore, 

Through  a  Red  Sea  is  doomed  to  be,  whose  surges  are  of  gore, 


- 


"  WITEX  FIRST  TIIK  PILGRIMS  LANDED  OX  THE 
HAY  STATE'S  IRON  SIIORK." 

Tis  ours  to  save  our  brethren,  with  peace  and  love  to  win 
Their  darkened  hearts  from  error,  ere  they  harden  it  to  sin ; 
Ikit  if  man  before  his  duty  with  listless  spirit  stands, 
Erelong  the  Great  Avenger  takes  the  work  from  out  his  hands. 


314  £be   <3bost=5cer. 

THE  GHOST-SEEK. 

YE  who,  passing  graves  by  night, 

Glance  not  to  the  left  nor  right, 

Lest  a  spirit  should  arise, 

Cold  and  white,  to  freeze  your  eyes, 

Some  weak  phantom,  which  your  doubt 

Shapes  upon  the  dark  without 


'GLANCE  NOT  TO  THK  LEFT  NOR  RIGHT,  LEST  A  SPIRIT  SH()1TI,1) 
ARISE,  COLD  AND  WHITE,  TO  FREEZE  YOUR  EYES." 

From  the  dark  within,  a  guess 
At  the  spirit's  deathlessness, 
Which  ye  entertain  with  fear 
In  your  self-built  dungeon  here, 
Where  ye  sell  your  God-given  lives 
Just  for  gold  to  buy  you  gyves, — 
Ye  without  a  shudder  meet 


315 


In  the  city's  noonday  street, 
Spirits  sadder  and  more  dread 
Than  from  out  the  clay  have  fled, 
Buried,  beyond  hope  of  light, 
In  the  body's  haunted  night  ! 

See  ye  not  that  woman  pale  ? 

There  are  bloodhounds  on  her  trail  ! 

Bloodhounds  two,  all  gaunt  and  lean, 

(For  the  soul  their  scent  is  keen,) 

Want  and  Sin,  and  Sin  is  last, 

They  have  followed  far  and  fast  ; 

Want  gave  tongue,  and,  at  her  howl, 

Sin  awakened  with  a  growl. 

Ah,  poor  girl  !  she  had  a  right 

To  a  blessing  from  the  light  ; 

Title-deeds  to  sky  and  earth 

God  gave  to  her  at  her  birth  ; 

But,  before  they  were  enjoyed, 

Poverty  had  made  them  void, 

And  had  drunk  the  sunshine  up 

From  all  nature's  ample  cup, 

Leaving  her  a  first-born's  share 

In  the  dregs  of  darkness  there. 

Often,  on  the  sidewalk  bleak, 

Hungry,  all  alone,  and  weak, 

She  has  seen,  in  night  and  storm, 

Rooms  o'erflow  with  firelight  warm, 

Which,  outside  the  window-glass, 

Doubled  all  the  cold,  alas! 

Till  each  ray  that  on  her  fell 

Stabbed  her  like  an  icicle, 

And  she  almost  loved  the  wail 

Of  the  bloodhounds  on  her  trail. 

Till  the  floor  becomes  her  bier, 

She  shall  feel  their  pantings  near, 

Close  upon  her  very  heels, 

Spite  of  all  the  din  of  wheels  ; 

Shivering  on  her  pallet  poor, 

She  shall  hear  them  at  the  door 

Whine  and  scratch  to  be  let  in, 

Sister  bloodhounds.  Want  and  Sin  ! 

Hark!  that  rustle  of  a  dress, 

Stiff  with  lavish  costliness  ! 

Here  comes  one  whose  cheek  would  flush 


316  Cbe   03bC6t=Seer. 

But  to  have  her  garment  brush 
'Gainst  the  girl  whose  fingers  thin 
Wove  the  weary  broidery  in, 
Bending  backward  from  her  toil, 
Lest  her  tears  the  silk  might  soil 
And  in  midnights  chill  and  murk, 
Stitched  her  life  into  the  work, 
Shaping  from  her  bitter  thought 
Heart's-ease  and  forget-me-not, 
Satirizing  her  despair 
With  the  emblems  woven  there. 

Little  doth  the  wearer  heed 

Of  the  heart-break  in  the  brede ; 

A  hyena  by  her  side 

Skulks,  down-looking, — it  is  Pride. 

He  digs  for  her  in  the  earth, 

Where  lie  all  her  claims  of  birth, 

With  .his  foul  paws  rooting  o'er 

Some  long-buried  ancestor, 

Who  perhaps,  a  statue  won 

By  the  ill  deeds  he  had  done, 

By  the  innocent  blood  he  shed, 

By  the  desolation  spread 

Over  happy  villages, 

Blotting  out  the  smile  of  peace. 

Round  her  heart  and  round  her  brain 

Wealth  hath  linked  a  golden  chain, 

Which  doth  close  and  closer  press 

Heart  and  brain  to  narrowness. 

Every  morn  and  every  night 

She  must  bare  that  bosom  white, 

Which  so  thrillingly  doth  rise 

'Neath  its  proud  embroideries, 

That  its  mere  heave  lets  men  know 

How  much  whiter  't  is  than  snow, — 

She  must  bare  it,  and,  unseen, 

Suckle  that  hyena  lean  ; — 

Ah  !  the  fountain's  angel  shrinks 

And  forsakes  it  while  he  drinks ! 

There  walks  Judas,  he  who  sold 
Yesterday  his  Lord  for  gold, 
Sold  God's  presence  in  his  heart 
For  a  proud  step  in  the  mart ; 


"AND  IN  MIDNIGHTS  CHILL  AND  MURK, 

STITCHED   HEK   LIFE   INTO   THE   WORK." 


318  Cbe   <3bost=Scer. 

He  hath  dealt  in  flesh  and  blood ; 
At  the  bank  his  name  is  good ; 
At  the  bank,  and  only  there, 
'T  is  a  marketable  ware. 
In  his  eyes  that  stealthy  gleam 
Was  not  learned  of  sky  or  stream. 
But  it  has  the  cold,  hard  glint 
Of  new  dollars  from  the  mint. 
Open  now  your  spirit's  eyes. 
Look  through  that  poor  clay  disguise 
Which  has  thickened,  day  by  day, 
Till  it  keeps  all  light  at  bay, 
And  his  soul  in  pitchy  gloom 
(iropes  about  its  narrow  tomb, 
From  whose  dank  and  slimy  walls 
Drop  by  drop  the  horror  falls. 
Look !  a  serpent  lank  and  cold 
Hugs  his  spirit  fold  on  fold  ; 
From  his  heart,  all  day  and  night, 
It  doth  suck  God's  blessed  light. 
Drink  it  will  and  drink  it  must. 
Till  the  cup  holds  naught  but  dust; 
All  day  long  he  hears  it  hiss, 
Writhing  in  its  fiendish  bliss; 
All  night  long  he  sees  its  eyes 
Flicker  with  foul  ecstasies, 
As  the  spirit  ebbs  away 
Into  the  absorbing  clay. 

Who  is  he  that  skulks,  afraid 

Of  the  trust  he  has  betrayed, 

Shuddering  if  perchance  a  gleam 

Of  old  nobleness  should  stream 

Through  the  pent,  unwholesome  room, 

Where  his  shrunk  soul  cowers  in  gloom, 

Spirit  sad  beyond  the  rest 

By  more  instinct  for  the  best  ? 

"T  is  a  poet  who  was  sent 

For  a  bad  world's  punishment, 

By  compelling  it  to  see 

Golden  glimpses  of  To  Be, 

By  compelling  it  to  hear 

Songs  that  prove  the  angels  near ; 

Who  was  sent  to  be  the  tongue 

Of  the  weak  and  spirit-wrung, 


Cbe  <3bost=Seer.  319 

Whence  the  fiery-winged  Despair 

In  men's  shrinking  eyes  might  flare. 

"1"  is  our  hope  doth  fashion  us 

To  base  use  or  glorious : 

He  who  might  have  been  a  lark 

Of  Truth's  morning,  from  the  dark 

Raining  down  melodious  hope 

Of  a  freer,  broader  scope, 

Aspirations,  prophecies, 

Of  the  spirit's  full  sunrise, 

Chose  to  be  a  bird  of  night, 

Which  with  eyes  refusing  light, 

Hooted  from  some  hollow  tree 

Of  the  world's  idolatry. 

'T  is  his  punishment  to  hear 

Flutterings  of  pinions  near, 

And  his  own  vain  wings  to  feel 

Drooping  downward  to  his  heel, 

All  their  grace  and  import  lost, 

Burdening  his  weary  ghost : 

Kver  walking  by  his  side 

He  must  see  his  angel  guide, 

Who  at  intervals  doth  turn 

Looks  on  him  so  sadly  stern, 

With  such  ever-new  surprise 

Of  hushed  anguish  in  her  eyes, 

That  it  seems  the  light  of  day 

From  around  him  shrinks  away, 

Or  drops  blunted  from  the  \vall 

Built  around  him  by  his  fall. 

Then  the  mountains,  whose  white  peaks 

Catch  the  morning's  earliest  streaks, 

He  must  see,  where  prophets  sit, 

Turning  east  their  faces  lit, 

Whence,  with  footsteps  beautiful, 

To  the  earth,  yet  dim  and  dull, 

They  the  gladsome  tidings  bring 

Of  the  sunlight's  hastening : 

Never  can  those  hills  of  bliss 

Be  o'erclimbed  by  feet  like  his! 

But  enough  !  O,  do  not  dare 
From  the  next  the  veil  to  tear. 
Woven  of  station,  trade,  or  dress, 
More  obscene  than  nakedness, 


320  StuMes  for  Cwo 

Where\vith  plausible  culture  drapes 
Fallen  Nature's  myriad  shapes ! 
Let  us  rather  love  to  mark 
How  the  unextinguished  spark 
Will  shine  through  the  thin  disguise 
Of  our  customs,  pomps,  and  lies, 
And  not  seldom  blown  to  tlame, 
Vindicate  its  ancient  claim. 


STUDIES  FOR  TWO   HEADS. 


SOME  sort  of  heart  I  know  is  hers, — 
I  chanced  to  feel  her  pulse  one  night ; 

A  brain  she  has  that  never  errs, 
And  yet  is  never  nobly  right ; 

It  does  not  leap  to  great  results, 
But  in  some  corner  out  of  sight, 
Suspects  a  spot  of  latent  blight, 
And  o'er  the  impatient  infinite, 

She  bargains,  haggles,  and  consults. 

Her  eye, — it  seems  a  chemic  test 
And  drops  upon  you  like  an  acid ; 

It  bites  you  with  unconscious  zest, 
So  clear  and  bright,  so  coldly  placid  ; 

It  holds  you  quietly  aloof, 

It  holds, — and  yet  it  does  not  win  you 


Stu&ies  for  Cvvo  t>eaC>0.  321 

It  merely  puts  you  to  the  proof 

And  sorts  what  qualities  are  in  you ; 
It  smiles,  but  never  brings  you  nearer, 

It  lights, — her  nature  draws  not  nigh; 
'T  is  but  that  yours  is  growing  clearer 

To  her  assays ; — yes,  try  and  try. 

You'll  get  no  deeper  than  her  eye. 

There,  you  are  classified  ;  she's  gone 

Far,  far  away  into  herself ; 
Each  with  its  Latin  label  on, 
Your  poor  components,  one  by  one, 

Are  laid  upon  their  proper  shelf 
In  her  compact  and  ordered  mind, 
And  what  of  you  is  left  behind 
Is  no  more  to  her  than  the  wind  ; 
In  that  clear  brain,  which,  day  and  night, 

No  movement  of  the  heart  e'er  jostles, 
Her  friends  are  ranged  on  left  and  right, — 
Here,   silex,  hornblende,  sienite; 

There,  animal  remains  and  fossils. 

And  yet,  O  subtile  analyst, 

That  canst  each  property  detect 
Or  mood  or  grain,  that  canst  untwist 

Each  tangled  skein  of  intellect. 
And  with  thy  scalpel  eyes  lay  bare 
Each  mental  nerve  more  fine  than  air, — 

O  brain  exact,  that  in  thy  scales 
Canst  weigh  the  sun  and  never  err. 

For  once  thy  patient  science  fails, 

One  problem  still  defies  thy  art ; — 
Thou  never  canst  compute  for  her 
The  distance  and  diameter 

Of  any  simple  human  heart. 

n. 
HEAR  him  but  speak,  and  you  will  feel 

The  shadows  of  the  Portico 
Over  your  tranquil  spirit  steal, 

To  modulate  all  joy  and  woe 
To  one  subdued,  subduing  glow ; 
Above  our  squabbling  business-hours, 
Like  Phidian  Jove's,  his  beauty  lowers, 
His  nature  satirizes  ours; 

A  form  and  front  of  Attic  grace, 


322  Stufcfes  for  £\vo  f}ea&0. 

He  shames  the  higgling  market-place 
And  dwarfs  our  more  mechanic  powers. 

What  throbbing  verse  can  fitly  render 
That  face  so  pure,  so  trembling-tender  ? 

Sensation  glimmers  through  its  rest, 
It  speaks  unmanacled  by  words, 

As  full  of  motion  as  a  nest 
That  palpitates  with  unfledged  birds : 

T  is  likest  to  ISethesda's  stream, 
Forwarned  through  all  its  thrilling  springs, 

White  with  the  angel's  coming  gleam, 
And  rippled  with  his  fanning  wings. 

Hear  him  unfold  his  plots  and  plans, 
And  larger  destinies  seem  man's ; 
You  conjure  from  his  glowing  face 
The  omen  of  a  fairer  race ; 
With  one  grand  trope  he  boldly  spans 
The  gulf  wherein  so  many  fall, 
'Twixt  possible  and  actual ; 
His  first  swift  word,  talaria-shod. 
Exuberant  with  conscious  (iod, 
Out  of  the  choir  of  planets  blots 
The  present  earth  with  all  its  spots. 

Himself  unshaken  as  the  sky, 

His  words,  like  whirlwinds,  spin  on  high 

Systems  and  creeds  pellmell  together; 
'T  is  strange  as  to  the  deaf  man's  eye, 
While  trees  uprooted  splinter  by, 

The  dumb  turmoil  of  stormy  weather; 

Less  of  iconoclast  than  shaper, 
His  spirit,  safe  behind  the  reach 
Of  the  tornado  of  his  speech, 

Burns  calmly  as  a  glowworm's  taper. 

So  great  in  speech,  but  ah !  in  act 

So  overrun  with  vermin  troubles, 
The  coarse,  sharp-cornered,  ugly  fact 

Of  life  collapses  all  his  bubbles: 
Had  he  but  lived  in  Plato's  day, 

He  might,  unless  my  fancy  errs, 
Have  shared  that  golden  voice's  sway 

O'er  barefooted  philosophers. 
Our  nipping  climate  hardly  suits 


Studies  for  Gvvo  t>eaJ>s.  323 

The  ripening  of  ideal  fruits  : 

His  theories  vanquish  us  all  summer, 

But  winter  makes  him  dumb  and  dumber ; 

To  see  him  mid  life's  needful  things 

Is  something  painfully  bewildering; 
He  seems  an  angel  with  clipt  wings 

Tied  to  a  mortal  wife  and  children, 
And  by  a  brother  seraph  taken 
In  the  act  of  eating  eggs  and  bacon. 
Like  a  clear  fountain,  his  desire 

Exults  and  leaps  toward  the  light, 
In  every  drop  it  says  "  Aspire  !  " 

Striving  for  more  ideal  height ; 
And  as  the  fountain,  falling  thence, 

Crawls  baffled  through  the  common  gutter, 
So,  from  his  speech's  eminence, 
He  shrinks  into  the  present  tense, 

Unkinged  by  foolish  bread  and  butter. 

Yet  smile  not,  worldling,  for  in  deeds 

Not  all  of  life  that  's  brave  and  wise  is; 
He  strews  an  ampler  future's  seeds, 

T  is  your  fault  if  no  harvest  rises ; 
Smooth  back  the  sneer;  for  is  it  naught 

That  all  he  is  and  has  is  beauty's  ? 
By  soul  the  soul's  gains  must  be  \\rought, 
The  Actual  claims  our  coarser  thought, 

The  Ideal  hath  its  higher  duties. 


324 


"CAN  THI8    BE  THOU   WHO,   LEAN  AND  PALE." 

ON   A   PORTRAIT  OF  DANTE   BY  C,I()TT<>. 

CAN  this  be  thou  who,  lean  and  pale, 

With  such  immitigable  eye 
Didst  look  upon  those  writhing  souls  in  bale, 

And  note  each  vengeance,  and  pass  by 
Unmoved,  save  when  thy  heart  by  chance 
Cast  backward  one  forbidden  glance, 

And  saw  Francesca,  with  child's  glee, 

Subdue  and  mount  thy  wild-horse  knee 
And  with  proud  hands  control  its  fiery  prance  ? 

With  half-drooped  lids,  and  smooth,  round  brow, 

And  eye  remote,  that  inly  sees 
Fair  Beatrice's  spirit  wandering  now 

In  some  sea-lulled  Hesperides, 
Thou  rnovest  through  the  jarring  street, 
Secluded  from  the  noise.of  feet 

By  her  gift-blossom  in  thy  hand, 

Thy  branch  of  palm  from  Holy  Land ; — 
No  trace  is  here  of  ruin's  fiery  sleet. 

Yet  there  is  something  round  thy  lips 

That  prophesies  the  coming  doom, 
The  soft,  gray  herald-shadow  ere  the  eclipse 

Notches  the  perfect  disk  with  gloom ; 
A  something  that  would  banish  thee, 
And  thine  untamed  pursuer  be, 

From  men  and  their  unworthy  fates, 

Though  Florence  had  not  shut  her  gates, 
And  Grief  had  loosed  her  clutch  and  let  thee  free. 


<Tbe   Cbanoclinci.  325 

Ah !  he  who  follows  fearlessly 

The  beckonings  of  a  poet-heart 

Shall  wander,  and  without  the  world's  derrt-i  , 

A  banished  man  in  field  and  mart; 
Harder  than  Florence'  walls  the  bar 
Which  with  deaf  sternness  holds  him  far 

From  home  and  friends,  till  death's  release, 

And  makes  his  only  prayer  for  peace, 
Like  thine,  scarred  veteran  of  a  lifelong  war! 


THE  CHANGELING. 

I  HAD  a  little  daughter, 

And  she  was  given  to  me 
To  lead  me  gently  backward 

To  the  Heavenly  Father's  knee, 
That  I,  by  the  force  of  nature, 

Might  in  some  dim  wise  divine 
The  depth  of  his  infinite  patience 

To  this  wayward  soul  of  mine. 

I  know  not  how  others  saw  her, 

But  to  me  she  was  wholly  fair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she  came  from 

Still  lingered  and  gleamed  in  her  hair; 
For  it  was  as  wavy  and  golden, 

And  as  many  changes  took, 
As  the  shadows  of  sun-gilt  ripples 

On  the  yellow  bed  of  a  brook. 

To  what  can  I  liken  her  smiling 

Upon  me,  her  kneeling  lover, 
How  it  leaped  from  her  lips  to  her  eyelids, 

And  dimpled  her  wholly  over, 
Till  her  outstretched  hands  smiled  also, 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 
The  very  heart  of  her  mother 

Sending  sun  through  her  veins  to  me ! 

She  had  been  with  us  scarce  a  twelve-month, 

And  it  hardly  seemed  a  day, 
When  a  troop  of  wandering  angels 

Stole  my  little  daughter  away ; 
Or  perhaps  those  heavenly  Zingari 


Cbe   pioneer.  327 

But  loosed  the  hampering  strings, 
And  when  they  had  opened  her  eagedoor, 
My  little  bird  used  her  wings. 

But  they  left  in  her  stead  a  changeling, 

A  little  angel  child, 
That  seems  like  her  bud  in  full  blossom, 

And  smiles  as  she  never  smiled  : 
When  I  wake  in  the  morning,  I  see  it 

Where  she  always  used  to  lie, 
And  I  feel  as  weak  as  a  violet 

Alone  'neath  the  awful  sky. 

As  weak,  yet  as  trustful  also : 

For  the  whole  year  long  I  see 
All  the  wonders  of  faithful  Nature 

Still  worked  for  the  love  of  me; 
Winds  wander,  and  dews  drip  earthward, 

Rain  falls,  suns  rise  and  set, 
Earth  whirls,  and  all  but  to  prosper 

A  poor  little  violet. 

This  child  is  not  mine  as  the  first  was, 

I  cannot  sing  it  to  rest, 
I  cannot  lift  it  up  fatherly 

And  bliss  it  upon  my  breast ; 
Yet  it  lies  in  my  little  one's  cradle 

And  sits  in  my  little  one's  chair, 
And  the  light  of  the  heaven  she's  gone  to 

Transfigures  its  golden  hair. 


THE  PIONEER. 

WHAT  man  would  live  coffined  with  brick  and  stone, 
Imprisoned  from  the  influences  of  air, 
And  cramped  with  selfish  landmarks  everywhere, 

When  all  before  him  stretches,  furrowless  and  lone, 
The  unmapped  prairie  none  can  fence  or  own  ? 

What  man  would  read  and  read  the  selfsame  faces, 
And,  like  the  marbles  which  the  windmill  grinds, 
Rub  smooth  forever  with  the  same  smooth  minds, 
This  year  retracing  last  year's,  every  year's,  dull  traces, 

When  there  are  woods  and  un-man-stifled  spaces  ? 


328  Cbe   pioneer. 

What  man  o'er  one  old  thought  would  pore  and  pore, 
Shut  like  a  book  between  its  covers  thin 
For  every  fool  to  leave  his  dog's-ears  in, 
When  solitude  is  his,  and  God  forevermore, 
Just  for  the  opening  of  a  paltry  door  ? 

What  man  would  watch  life's  oozy  element 
Creep  Letheward  forever,  when  he  might 
Down  some  great  river  drift  beyond  men's  sight, 
To  where  the  undethroned  forest's  royal  tent 
Broods  with  its  hush  o'er  half  a  continent  ? 

What  man  with  men  would  push  and  altercate, 
Piecing  out  crooked  means  for  crooked  ends, 
When  he  can  have  the  skies  and  woods  for  friends. 
Snatch  back  the  rudder  of  his  undismantled  fate, 

And  in  himself  be  ruler,  church,  and  state  ? 

Cast  leaves  and  feathers  rot  in  last  year's  nest, 

The  winged  brood,  flown  thence,  new  dwellings  plan 
The  serf  of  his  own  Past  is  not  a  man ; 
To  change  and  change  is  life,  to  move  and  never  rest;— - 

Not  what  we  are,  but  what  we  hope,  is  best. 

The  wild,  free  woods  make  no  man  halt  or  blind ; 
Cities  rob  men  of  eyes  and  hands  and  feet, 
Patching  one  whole  of  many  incomplete ; 
The  general  preys  upon  the  individual  mind, 

And  each  alone  is  helpless  as  the  wind. 

Each  man  is  some  man's  servant;  every  soul 
Is  by  some  other's  presence  quite  discrowned  ; 
Each  owes  the  next  through  all  the  imperfect  round, 
Yet  not  with  mutual  help ;  each  man  is  his  own  goal, 

And  the  whole  earth  must  stop  to  pay  his  toll. 

Here,  life  the  undiminished  man  demands; 

New  faculties  stretch  out  to  meet  new  wants ; 

What  Nature  asks,  that  Nature  also  grants ; 
Here  man  is  lord,  not  drudge,  of  eyes  and  feet  and  hands, 
And  to  his  life  is  knit  with  hourly  bands. 

Come  out,  then,  from  the  old  thoughts  and  old  ways. 
Before  you  harden  to  a  crystal  cold 
Which  the  new  life  can  shatter,  but  not  mould. 
Freedom  for  you  still  waits,  still,  looking  backward  stays, 

But  widens  still  the  irretrievable  space. 


Xotuiinci.  329 

LONGING. 

OF  all  the  myriad  moods  of  mind 

That  through  the  soul  come  thronging, 
Which  one  was  e'er  so  dear,  so  kind, 

So  beautiful  as  Longing  ? 
The  thing  \ve  long  for,  that  \ve  are 

For  one  transcendent  moment, 
Before  the  Present  poor  and  bare 

Can  make  its  sneering  comment. 

Still,  through  our  paltry  stir  and  strife, 

Glows  down  the  wished  Ideal, 
And  longing  moulds  in  clay  \vhat  life 

Carves  in  the  marble  Real ; 
To  let  the  new  life  in,  we  know 

Desire  must  ope  the  portal ; 
Perhaps  the  longing  to  be  so 

Helps  make  the  soul  immortal. 

Longing  is  God's  fresh  heavenward  will 

With  our  poor  earthward  striving ; 
We  quench  it  that  we  may  be  still 

Content  with  merely  living; 
But,  would  we  learn  that  heart's  full  scope 

Which  we  are  hourly  wronging, 
Our  lives  must  climb  from  hope  to  hope 

And  realize  our  longing. 

Ah  !  let  us  hope  that  to  our  praise 

Good  ( '.od  not  only  reckons 
The  moments  when  we  tread  His  ways, 

But  when  the  spirit  beckons, — 
That  some  slight  good  is  also  wrought 

Beyond  self-satisfaction, 
When  we  are  simply  good  in  thought. 

Howe'er  we  fail  in  action. 


ON  THK  DEATH  OF-'  CHARLES  T.  TORREV. 

WOK  worth  the  hour  when  it  is  crime 

To  plead  the  poor  dumb  bondman's  cause. 
When  all  that  makes  the  heart  sublime. 
The  glorious  throbs  that  conquer  time, 
Are  traitors  to  our  cruel  laws  ! 


33°         ©n  tbe  Deatb  of    Cbarlcs  C.  Corrcp. 

He  strove  among  God's  suffering  poor 
One  gleam  of  brotherhood  to  send ; 
The  dungeon  oped  its  hungry  door 
To  give  the  truth  one  martyr  more, 
Then  shut, — and  here  behold  the  end! 

O  Mother  State !  when  this  was  done, 

No  pitying  throe  thy  bosom  gave ; 
Silent  thou  savv'st  the  death-shroud  spun, 
And  now  thou  givest  to  thy  son 
The  stranger's  charity, — a  grave. 

Must  it  be  thus  forever  ?     No ! 

The  hand  of  God  sows  not  in  vain ; 
Long  sleeps  the  darkling  seed  below, 
The  seasons  come,  and  change,  and  go, 

And  all  the  fields  are  deep  with  grain. 

Although  our  brother  lie  asleep, 

Man's  heart  still  struggles,  still  aspires ; 
His  grave  shall  quiver  yet,  while  deep 
Through  the  brave  Bay  State's  pulses  leap 
Her  ancient  energies  and  fires. 

When  hours  like  this  the  senses'  gush 

Have  stilled,  and  left  the  spirit  room, 
It  hears  amid  the  eternal  hush 
The  swooping  pinions'  dreadful  rush. 

That  bring  the  vengeance  and  the  doom  ;- 

Not  man's  brute  vengeance,  such  as  rends 

What  rivets  man  to  man  apart, — 
God  doth  not  so  bring  round  his  ends, 
But  waits  the  ripened  time,  and  sends 
His  mercy  to  the  oppressor's  heart. 


THE  FALCONER. 

I  have  a  Falcon  swift  and  peerless 

As  e'er  was  cradled  in  the  pine; 
No  bird  had  ever  eye  so  fearless, 

Or  wing  so  strong  as  this  of  mine. 
The  winds  no  better  love  to  pilot 

The  clouds  with  molten  gold  o'errun, 
Than  him,  the  little  burning  islet, 

A  star  above  the  sunken  sun. 


Cbe   jfalconcr.  331 

But  better  he  loves  the  lusty  morning, 

When  the  last  white  star  yet  stands  at  bay, 
And  earth,  half  waked,  smiles  a  child's  forewarning 

Of  the  longed-for  mother  kiss  of  day. 
Then  with  a  lark's  heart  doth  he  tower, 

By  a  glorious  upward  instinct  drawn ; 
No  bee  nestles  deeper  in  the  Mower 

Than  he  in  the  bursting  rose  of  dawn. 

What  joy  to  see  his  sails  uplifted 

Against  the  worst  that  gales  can  dare, 
Through  the  nor'  wester's  surges  drifted, 

Bold  Viking  of  the  Sea  of  air ! 
His  eye  is  fierce,  yet  mildened  over 

With  something  of  a  dove-like  ruth ; 
I  am  his  master  less  than  lover, 

My  brave  sun-seeker's  name  is  Truth. 

Where'er  some  hoary  owl  of  Error 

Lags,  though  his  native  night  be  past, 
And  at  the  sunshine  hoots  his  terror, 

The  Falcon  from  my  wrist  I  cast ; 
Swooping  he  scares  the  birds  uncleanly 

That  in  the  holy  temple  prey, 
Then  in  the  blue  air  floats  serenely 

Above  their  hoarse  anathema. 

Xo  harmless  dove,  no  bird  that  singeth, 

Shudders  to  see  him  overhead  ; 
The  rush  of  his  fierce  pinions  bringeth 

To  innocent  hearts  no  thrill  of  dread. 
Let  fraud  and  wrongs  and  falsehoods  shiver, 

For  still  between  them  and  the  sky 
The  falcon  Truth  hangs  poised  forever 

And  marks  them  with  his  vengeful  eye. 


ANTI-TEXAS. 

WRITTKX    ON    OCCASION    OF    THK   CONVENTION    IN    KANUEII, 
HALL,    JANUARY    29,     1845. 

O  Spirit  of  the  noble  Past,  when  the  old  Bay  State  was  free, 
When  her  soil  was  uncontaminate  from  Berkshire  to  the  sea, 
When  her  sons  beneath  a  foreign  sky  could  answer  bold  and 

loud 
Of  the  land    that    held   their  fathers'   bones  within  her  bosom 

proud, — 


332 

O,  for  a  moment,  wake  again !  rise  from  thy  ancient  deep. 
Where,  in  their  waving  sea-weed  shrouds,  are  swung  to  dream 
less  sleep 

Her  tawny-visaged  mariners,  within  whatever  nook 
Old  Ocean  with  his  moaning  surge  in  farthest  seas  hath  shook ! 

Awake !  arise !  O,  come  again,  called  up  from  every  sod 
Where  the  moss-gray   headstones   cluster   round    the    humble 

house  of  God, 

Where  rest  the  stern  old  Pilgrims,  each  little  hamlet's  pride, 
Now,  for  the  first  time,  sleeping  with  no  weapon  by  their  side ! 

O,  come  from  where  the  same  good  blood,  sworn  foe  to  slavery 
still, 

Came  oozing  through  the  homespun  frock  on  that  world-famous 
Hill, 

And  choked  his  voice  whose  last  faint  prayer  was  for  his  coun 
try's  health, — 

From  being  slave  or  making  slave  God  save  the  Commonwealth  ! 

O,  come  from  every  battle-field,  from  every  famous  scene, 
Where  any  blood  for  Freedom  shed  hath  made  the  grass  more 

green, 

Where,  if  there  be  one  darker  spot  and  greener  than  the  rest, 
It  marks  where  Pilgrim  blood  hath  flowed  from  a  Massachusetts 

breast. 

Rouse !  for  the  Massachusetts  men  are  crowding,  one  and  all, 
To  look  at  the  corpse  of  Freedom,  where  she  lies  in   Fanueil 

Hall, 
Where  she  lies  in  her  cradle  stark  and  stiff,  with  death-damp  on 

her  brow, 
Though  cravens  would  have  us  think  her  heart  beat  never  so 

strong  as  now ! 

From  clanging  forge,  from  humming  mill,  from  workshop  and 

from  loom. 
From  ploughing  land  and  ploughing  sea,  from  student's  lonely 

room, 
They're  coming  with  the  will  in  their  eyes,  the   Puritan-hearted 

men, — 
At  sound  of  their  footsteps,  the  blood  shall  rush  to  Freedom's 

cheek  again ! 


Not  now,    as   in  the   olden   time,    with   braced-up  hearts  they 

come, 

While  King  Street  echoes  jarringly  the  roll  of  British  drum ; 
Not  now  prepared  to  grasp  the  sword,  and  snatch  the  firelock 

down 
From  where  it  had  hung  since  the  old  French  war,  with  dust 

and  cobwebs  brown  ; — 

They're  coming  but  to  speak  one  word,  they're  coming  but  to 

say, — 
"Poor  minions  of  the  tyrant's  cause,  your  grovelling  hearts 

obey ! 
But,  hear  it,  North,  and  hear  it,  South,  and  hear  it.  East  and 

West, 
We  will  not  help  you  bind  your  slaves!  In  Gods  name,  we 

protest !  " 

And,  though  all  other  deeds  of  thine,  dear  Father-land,  should 

be 
Washed  out,   like  writing  upon  sand,   by    Time's  encroaching 

sea, 

That  single  word  shall  stand  sublime,  nor  perish  with  the  rest, — 
' '  Though  the  whole  world  sanction  slavery,  in  God's  name,  we 

protest!  " 

If  hand  and  foot  we  must  be  bound  by  deeds  our  fathers  signed, 
And  must  be  cheated,  gulled,   and  scorned  because   they  too 

were  blind. 
Why,  let  them  have  their  pound   of  flesh,- — for  that  is  in  the 

bond, — 
But  woe  to  them,  if  they  but  take  a  half-hair's  breadth  beyond! 

Is  water  running  in  our  veins  ?     Do  we  remember  still 
Old  Plymouth  rock,  and  Lexington,  and  glorious  Bunker  Hill  ? 
The  debt  we  owe  our  fathers'  graves,  and  to  the  yet  unborn, 
Whose  heritage  ourselves  must  make  a  thing  of  pride  or  scorn  ? 

Gray  Plymouth  rock  hath    yet  a  tongue,    and  Concord  is  not 

dumb, 

And  voices  from  our  fathers'  graves  and  from  the  future  come ; 
They  call  on  us  to  stand  our  ground,  they  charge  us  still  to  be 
Not  only  free  from  chains  ourselves,  but  foremost  to  make  free ! 

If  we  must  stand  alone,  what  then  ?  the  honor  shall  be  more  ;-  - 
But  we  can  never  stand  alone,  while  heaven  still  arches  o'er, 


334  £be  TRogal  pe&iciree. 

While  there's  a  God  to  worship,  a  devil  to  be  denied  : 
The  good  and  true  of  every  age  stand  with  us  side  by  side ! 

Or,  if  it  must  be,  stand  alone !  and  stronger  we  shall  grow 
With  every  coward  that  deserts  to  join  the  tyrant  foe ; 
Let  wealth  and  trade  and  empire  go  for  what  the  dross  is  worth, 
One  man  that  stands  for  right  outweighs  the  guilt  of  all  the 
earth. 

No,  if  the  old  Bay  State  were  sunk,  and,  as  in  days  of  yore, 
One  single  ship  within  her  sides  the  hope  of  Freedom  bore. 
Run  up  again  the  pine-tree  flag,  and  on  the  chainless  sea 
That  flag  should  mark,  where'er  it  waved,  an  island  of  the  free. 


THE    ROYAL  PEDIGREE. 

Let  those  who  will  claim  gentle  birth, 

And  take  their  pride  in  Norman  blood, 
The  purest  ancestry  on  earth 

Must  find  its  spring  in  Adam's  mud ; 
And  all,  though  noble  now  or  base, 

From  the  same  level  took  their  rise, 
And,  side  by  side,  in  loving  grace, 

Leaped,  crystal-clear,  from  Paradise. 

We  are  no  spawn  of  bartered  love, 

That's  welded  to  the  heart  with  gold, 
Put  on  as  lightly  as  a  glove, 

As  lightly  doffed,  scarce  three  days  old, — - 
A  love  that  marries  lands  to  lands. 

The  passion  of  two  title-deeds, 
That  loosely  rivets  two  cold  hands, 

And  idler  heirs  to  idlers  breeds. 

Large-limbed,  the  friend  of  sun  and  air, 

Its  sinewy  arms  with  labor  brown. 
With  glad,  strong  soul,  that  seemed  to  wear 

Its  human  nature  like  a  crown, — 
Such  was  the  love  from  which  we  sprang, 

A  love  clear-hearted  as  the  morn, 
Which  through  life's  toils  and  troubles  sang 

Like  a  tall  reaper  'mid  the  corn. 

Life  lay  before  us  bare  and  broad, 
To  conquer  with  two  hands  alone, — 


Gbe  IRogal  ipc&icjrec.  335 

But  we  had  faith  in  man  and  God, 

And  proudly  claimed  our  Father's  throne  ; 

We  made  our  vassal  of  the  Now, 

And,  from  its  want  and  woe  and  wrong, 

Our  hearts  rose  lightly  as  a  bough 

From  which  a  bird  hath  soared  in  song. 

Among  our  sires  no  high-born  chief 

Freckled  his  hands  with  peasant-gore, 
No  spurred  and  coroneted  thief 

Set  his  mailed  heel  upon  the  poor; 
No,  we  are  come  of  nobler  line, 
*  With  larger  heart  within  the  breast, 
Large  heart  by  suffering  made  divine, — 

We  draw  our  lineage  from  the  oppressed : 

Not  from  the  sceptred  brutes  who  reigned, 

But  from  the  humble  souls  who  bore, 
And  so  a  godlike  patience  gained, 

Which,  suffering  much,  could  suffer  more, 
Which  learned  foregiveness,  and  the  grace 

That  cometh  of  a  bended  knee, — 
From  martyrs  such  as  these  we  trace 

Our  royal  genealogy. 

There's  not  a  great  soul  gone  before 

That  is  not  numbered  in  our  clan, 
Who,  when  the  world  took  side  with  power, 

Stdod  boldly  on  the  side  of  Man ; 
All  hero-spirits  plain  and  grand, 

That  for  the  Ages  ope  the  door, 
All  Labor's  dusty  monarchs,  stand 

Among  the  children  of  the  poor. 

Let  others  boast  of  ancestors 

Who  handed  down  some  idle  right 
To  stand  beside  their  tyrant's  horse, 

Or  buckle  his  spurs  before  the  fight ; 
We,  too,  have  our  ancestral  claim 

Of  marching  ever  in  the  van, 
Of  giving  ourselves  to  steel  and  flame, 

Where  aught  's  to  be  achieved  for  man. 

And  is  not  this  a  family-tree 

Worth  keeping  fair  from  age  to  age  ? 
\Vas  ever  such  an  ancestry 


336  Cbc  lEpitapb. 

(iold-blazoned  on  the  herald's  page  ? 
In  dear  New  England  let  us  still 

Maintain  our  race  and  title  pure, 
The  men  and  women  of  heart  and  will, 

The  inonarchs  who  endure. 


T11K   EPITAPH. 

What  means  this  glozing  epitaph, 
Unless  its  errand  be  to  shame, 

As  with  a  mocking  devil's  laugh. 
The  frail  delusion  of  that  fame 
Which  but  embalms  an  empty  name  ? 

As  columns,  when  the  roof  is  gone 

Which  they  were  reared  to  hold  on  high, 

Are  merely  idle  shafts  of  stone, 

Which,  forced  to  tell  an  endless  lit-, 
Do  but  deride  the  passer-by ; — 

So  stand  these  legends  in  Death's  halls; 
Vain  figures  on  a  dial-plate 

Whereon  no  gnomon's  shadow  falls; 
Poor  inch-deep  characters,  that  prate 
Of  empire  over  Time  and  Fate. 

When  eye,  and  tongue,  and  heart  are  null, 
What  profits  then  the  laurel  wreath, 

Twined  loathsome  round  a  grinning  skull  ? 
Food  crammed  between  a  corpse's  teeth 
To  win  a  deeper  sneer  from  Death ! 

O  high  Ambition  !  can  there  be 
Xo  epitaph  in  league  with  Time  ? 

Is  life  a  ship's  track  in  the  sea  ? 

Are  all  these  hopes  and  aims  sublime 
Mere  architecture  of  frail  rime  ? 

Doth  God  implant  for  worse  than  naught 

This  huge  desire  of  memory  ? 
Cannot  some  monument  be  wrought, 

Which  from  its  moveless  height  shall  see 

The  pyramids'  last  obsequey  ? 


JEpitapb.  337 

To  be  a  glimpse  of  summer  sent 
Into  the  bleak  hearts  of  the  poor; 

To  make  (iod's  sunshine  evident, 
By  opening  Eden's  humble  door 
To  souls  where  darkness  reigned  before; 

To  make  this  cloudy  life  a  part 

Of  the  eternal  grace  beyond  ; 
To  forge  the  vague  dreams  of  the  In-art 

Into  a  mighty  sceptre-vvaucl 

\Yhose  touch  makes  freemen  of  the  bond; — 

Methinks  a  life  thus  spent  should  rear 
A  monument  in  Fate's  despite. 

Whose  epitaph  would  grow  more  clear 
As  Truth's  sun  rose  and  scattered  light 
Full  and  more  full,  from  Heaven's  glad  height. 

Let  it  be  graven  on  my  tomb; — 

"He  came  and  left  more  smiles  behind, 

One  ray  he  shot  athwart  the  gloom, 
He  helped  one  fetter  to  unbind. 
Men  think  of  him  and  grow  more  kind." 
1844. 


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favorite  poems  (B  Greasun?  of). 
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